


Echoes of Love and Absence

by prettyvk



Series: The James Holmes Chronicles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:06:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 25,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes from James' and John's POV set during Crazy for Love and The Risk of Absence. Probably won't make much sense if you haven't read those.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missing Bach - CFL 2

**Author's Note:**

> While i've chosen to tell Crazy For Love and The Risk of Absence exclusively from Sherlock's point of view, i sometimes wish i could have peeked into James' head, or John's. This is what these vignettes will be: little peeks at events either told or alluded to in those two stories. 
> 
> No update schedule whatsoever. I'll post as the muse strikes. 
> 
> Also these won't be told in order. I'll assume you've read CFL and TROA and mention in the notes when each vignette takes place chronologically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during chapter 2 of CFL when Sherlock takes James home after killing Moran.

James is used to sleeping in strange places.

No. That’s not right.

He’s used to being told to go to sleep in strange places.

He hasn’t had a set bedtime in years. Sebastian never cared much about rules, not like Father did. It was always time for James to go to sleep whenever Sebastian wanted to get him out of his hair. Or… the other thing. 

(Never again, not anymore, because he’s dead, James is very sure of it, he watched them fight and saw how it ended and he wishes he could have done it himself but it doesn’t matter now because Sebastian is gone and never touching him again.)

But it’s one thing to lie down on a bed that will be his for one night or a few weeks, he never knows which, and quite a different one to actually go to sleep.

Tonight, he fell asleep in the cab. That had never happened before. He was always too much on edge to doze off whenever they were on the move. Part of him always hoped he’d get a chance to get away; he tried, twice. Sebastian was not amused. Also, being awake meant that he could try to leave clues and hints along the way for whoever was after them. That, Sebastian never noticed. If he had, he’d certainly have killed James, but the risk was worth it.

(Definitely worth it because Sebastian is dead, really dead, his neck made a small cracking sound but to James it sounded like thunder. He’s going to remember that sound for the rest of his life – or at least he hopes he will because it was the most wonderful sound, almost but not quite better than Bach when someone really talented plays it on a really good piano in a room perfect for music – a room like the drawing room at home, and a piano like Father’s, and someone talented like him.)

When they get to the small flat, Sherlock tells him to go to bed. And he says James should sleep in his bed. James is exhausted, and still a little drowsy from the cab, but the most awful thought comes to him. And it’s silly. It has to be silly. Sherlock is good, Father said he is. He’s not like Sebastian at all. He can’t be.

(Even though he killed Sebastian with his hands, and probably killed other people too while he was tracking them, James knows that, and he knows Sebastian was a killer, too, and he hopes Sherlock isn’t like Sebastian in other ways.)

It would be just too awful if he was. So he can’t be.

It’s what James repeats to himself as he curls up, fully clothed, in yet another strange bed, under a blanket that doesn’t feel quite warm enough even though it’s not a cold night. He clings to that hope like he clings to the blanket, tight and desperate. He never even realizes he’s falling asleep, falling into dreams in which Sebastian is still alive, not until the sound of his name snaps him out of it all. His heart feels like it just might escape, the way James never could. But he’s free, now, he remembers all of a sudden.

“Are you awake?” Sherlock asks. His voice sounds… not far, exactly; the flat isn’t big enough for that. But not close either. He must be on the sofa.

“Ye-yes?” James manages, his eyes wide as he stares straight ahead.

In the darkness that permeates the flat, he can’t see anything move. Can’t hear steps or the floor creaking. Just Sherlock’s voice asking, “Good. I was wondering. Do you know additional languages other than Italian?”

The question is so completely unexpected that James needs to repeat it to himself to make sense of it. 

“French,” he finally says. He has no idea why Sherlock wants to know that, and also why he wants to know now. But maybe it’s important, so he gives a full answer. “And a bit of German. But Fa…” He has to swallow hard before he can get the word out. “Father said my German was terrible.”

It was terrible three years ago. Now, it’s probably worse.

“All right,” Sherlock says calmly. “Maybe we’ll work on that. That’s all. You can go back to sleep.”

James frowns at the darkness, still not sure what this was about. He closes his eyes, but he can’t find sleep, not when he’s wondering what Sherlock will do if his German is no good at all. 

(Father had said they’d go to Switzerland when he was done being Richard Brook, and that they’d practice speaking German and that he’d teach James to ski. He’d promised. James has done his best not to forget but if Father asked him to speak German today, he’d be appalled.)

He doesn’t realize the question is back in his mind, not until he starts to ask it.

“Sherlock? Are you…” Abruptly, he remembers that Sherlock was upset when James asked the second time. He said he doesn’t like repeating himself. He’ll be upset again. But James just can’t stop. Not now. “I know you said you’re sure, but… are you really sure?”

There’s a second of silence that feels like it lasts forever, and then Sherlock says, “Yes. I am really sure.”

Something twists inside James. For three years, he wasn’t completely certain whether it was Sherlock or Father chasing Sebastian. He wasn’t certain which one he wanted it to be. And now, he’s not certain if he wants to believe Sherlock – if he can believe him.

“Okay,” he says anyway. “Thank you.”

This time, when he finds sleep again, he dreams of the piano in the drawing room, and Father playing James’ favorite song because he learned all his German words and didn’t make a single mistake. 

When he wakes up at dawn, he doesn’t think of Sebastian, or at least not right away. He thinks of music, and how much he misses it.


	2. Long Distance - CFL 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Chapter 14 of CFL - John's honeymoon
> 
> Warning for John/Mary cuddling - in case such a warning is necessary.

Above the bed, the ceiling fan swooshes gently, its lowest setting hardly disturbing the air. It’s all right, it isn't so hot that a fan is needed at all—although that barely-there breeze does feel nice against John’s skin, as nice as Mary’s thumb gently stroking his side.

“How about this one?” she asks without looking up from the brochure she is reading. “Fifteenth century. Paintings and statues. And there's a winery close by. Free samples.”

“Church then wine,” John hums. “I thought it went the other way around.”

Mary laughs and shifts closer to press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Well, maybe we’ll need a nap after the wine... you know, a nice siesta like today.”

Rolling over onto his stomach, John lies alongside her, their bodies pressed together at the shoulders and thighs, their feet entwining. “Mrs. Watson,” he says in a rumble, “I believe you just might be insatiable.”

She looks at him from under her eyelashes. “Is that a problem, Mr. Watson?”

“Not at all. But you don't need to wine me anymore, you know.”

He takes her left hand and kisses the ring on her finger.

“How about dine you?” she murmurs, leaning in closer. “Can I do that?”

Their lips brush together, a kiss as lazy as it is sweet. 

“How much time before our dinner reservations?” Mary asks against his mouth.

John reaches for his phone on the night table. Before he can answer Mary’s question, he’s startled when the phone buzzes in his hand. Mary turns her head to him, her eyebrows raised questioningly. John looks at the screen.

“Told you,” he says, showing it to her.

“No,” she says with a quiet chuckle. “You said he'd text with a case during our wedding night. It’s not our wedding night anymore. Is it even about a case?”

He presses his grin against her shoulder and lets her take the phone from him. Sherlock will have to wait. It’s not as though John can help with whatever it is all the way from Spain.

“Send him the message in the drafts, would you?”

He hears the ping that means Sherlock is about to receive the definition of honeymoon. It’s followed by a sharp intake of breath.

“John. Read this.”

She pushes the phone back at him and John reads the text that came in. He has to read it twice before the words start to make sense.

_Because you punched me James is now under the delusion that everyone shows affection through violence. How do I fix it?  
SH_

John’s thumbs are moving before he even knows it. No text, they’d said, but Mary doesn't protest. She's stroking his shoulder as he types, asking, “Do you have his number?”

As he hits send - _wait a minute. WHAT THE HELL?_ \- John first thinks she means Sherlock's number, but of course not.

“James’? Yeah. Should I—”

“Talk to him? Definitely.”

She presses herself more tightly against his side as he dials. He places the phone on the bed in front of them so she can hear both sides of the conversation, or maybe even help.

James’ voice rises in the room, hesitant and a little shaky. “Hello?”

“James. It’s John.” The words come out before John even knows what he’s saying. “Please tell me Sherlock misunderstood something you said and you don’t actually think I punched him to prove I care about him.”

He’s trying as hard as he can to remain calm and keep his tone even, but when James’ reply starts with “Yes, that’s—” he can barely contain himself.

“Where did you get that ridiculous idea? I don’t go around hitting the people I care about!” 

On his back, Mary’s hand is stroking again, gently soothing even as she says his name very softly.

“But you did!” James protests all the way from London.

Closing his eyes, John takes a deep breath to calm down. In his mind, he can see Sherlock standing in front of him, talking about games and choices. Sherlock standing in his home, alive, his face clean when for three years John had dreamed of it covered in blood. He never decided to hit him. It just happened. And then there was blood on Sherlock’s mouth, like in John's dreams.

“I know I said I don’t regret it,” he says more quietly, “but I still shouldn’t have done it. I was upset. I was hurt that he lied to me for so long, that he forced me to… I didn’t hit him because I care about him. I hit him because I was hurting and I wanted him to hurt too. That’s not how anyone should show they care about someone. And it’s not how he’ll show he cares about you.”

“Then how do I know?” James whispers.

“Well. He won’t say it.” That much, John is sure about. But how _does_ Sherlock expresses his affection? John tries to think of the times he’s seen the two of them together and the little things he noticed along the way. “He talks to you like he expects you to understand everything he says. There’s no higher praise from him. He sits down for meals with you when he doesn’t even remember to eat if he’s on his own. He has no patience with other people, but he’s got enough of it to teach you. How is that for a start?”

There’s a long silence before James asks, still as quietly, “So all that… it means…”

“Yes, honey,” Mary says close to the phone in a voice as gentle as the way she continues to stroke John’s back. “Of course that’s what it means. Of course he cares about you. Very, very much. We can all see that.”

After another pause, James lets out a quiet, “Okay. I mean, thank you.”

“You’ve got nothing to thank us for,” John says. “I’m sorry I set a bad example for you.”

Although he doubts he was the first one to impress that particular lesson on James. After another word of thanks, James says goodbye and Mary disconnects the call.

“I hope that was enough,” John breathes, drawing Mary into his arms.

She burrows against him, wrapping her arms around him. “Only if he’s ready to see it,” she says. “Even when all the signs are there, sometimes people just can’t see them. Or they don’t want to.”

There’s something in her voice, muffled as it is against his chest, and he wonders if she means Sherlock couldn’t see or didn’t want to see whatever signs John was giving off three years ago. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to touch that topic now, or ever again, really.

Weeks later, after she’s gone, he’ll start wondering if she meant that John was the one who couldn’t see what, to her, might have been plain as day.


	3. Lunch Date - CFL 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my apologies for the bad art. This was a one time deal and I won't inflict another one of those on you. I just thought i'd post it here because it goes with the previous chapter pretty well.
> 
> Set during chapter 12 of CFL when Sherlock 'tricks' John into babysitting James while he goes to a crime scene.

If the pics get broken again, you can see the full comic on [tumblr](http://prettyvk.tumblr.com/post/124577936372/sorry-for-posting-something-old-trying-to-fix-the).

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Unsaid - TROA 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during chapter 7 of TROa when John examines James.

Twenty-three.

There are twenty-three small, round burn scars on James’ pale skin.

John isn’t aware he’s been counting until the number burns in his mind, a red flare like the tip of a cigarette, searing his thoughts and leaving a mark that won’t go away. He’s never going to forget this, he already knows that much.

He’s seen plenty of less than pleasant things during his years as a doctor, and even more of them while he was in the army. He’s always been compassionate and kind – or at least he’s always tried to be – but he also always managed to keep everything compartmentalized. Pity, anger, sadness, none of it helps the patients, so he didn’t let himself feel it.

But this… This isn’t a random patient, or a fellow soldier. This isn’t a stranger whose name he read on a chart before saying hello. It’s a little boy he’s grown very fond of in the past few weeks. It’s a child who plays the violin well enough, and the piano beautifully. It’s Sherlock’s son, and Moriarty’s, and if glimmers or echoes of the latter sometimes appear in his eyes or in his words, it’s the former he so often tries to emulate. It’s James. Brave, terrified, stoic James, who had a panic attack not an hour ago but who sits there now in that paper gown as though he’s still clad in one of his fancy suits.

John continues the check-up, although for a few seconds it’s his own blood he can hear pounding in his ears rather than James’. When he finally manages to focus on what he hears through the stethoscope, James’ heart is beating fast; too fast. That’s not unexpected, not any more than his high blood pressure was. 

For someone under so much stress, his poker face is flawless. John can’t help but wonder if he’s put up a mask like this before in front of them. Would they notice if he did? Can Sherlock see how affected James is right now? Or is he too upset himself to notice? Because he is upset, that much is obvious to John even if Sherlock hasn’t said a word since James started to undress. He didn’t react to the scars, come to think of it. He knew about them, John realizes suddenly; at the same moment, he remembers the satisfaction in James’ voice when he mentioned Sherlock stopped smoking. The two things are linked. They can’t not be.

Another few beats, and John lifts the stethoscope off James’ back. They’re done, or he thinks they are, but he forgot one basic part of being a doctor: listening to what the patient says.

Listening, also, to what the patient is too afraid or embarrassed to say.

James asks if the scars will fade; John hears him wonder if it’ll always be this difficult to look at those remnants of his past, or even to let people see them – to let people get close. 

He doesn’t say sometimes the cigarette tip was half extinguished when it was pressed against his skin, and sometimes it was brightly incandescent. Sometimes it lasted for the time of a blink, and sometimes it went on and on, like it wouldn’t ever stop. He doesn’t need to say any of it, it’s written right there on his skin.

He doesn’t say the man’s name, but it echoes in the exam room anyway, a shadow darkening James’ eyes.

Broken neck.

That’s all John can think about even as he keeps a small smile on his lips and answers James’ questions. The smile drops off his face when he slips out of the room.

A broken neck seems like a much too easy way to die. It’s a small consolation to know Sherlock feels the same way.


	5. Sunshine - CFL 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James' view of his first morning with Sherlock.

James wakes up early. He always does. It’s safer that way. Sebastian likes to travel early in the day, and if James isn’t ready to leave whenever Sebastian decides to go – or worse, if he’s still asleep – there’s always hell to pay.

Except…

As soon as his mind clears and he remembers where he is, and why, he also remembers that Sebastian won’t ever kick him awake again. He won’t ever hurt anybody again, not James and not anyone else. 

A tiny, quiet voice inside James whispers that it must be bad to be happy someone died, and also bad to wish the way they died had been a lot more painful. Usually, James doesn’t mind that little voice, even if it always tells dangerous things he learned not to repeat aloud; it’s hard to listen to it when it’s talking about _Sebastian_.

He stays under the covers for a long while, watching the room go from dark to not so dark to fully lit as the sun goes up and light filters in through the windows. He can see Sherlock on the sofa, fast asleep, and wonders how mad he would be if James woke him up by accident. He’s not sure he wants to find out. On the other hand, if there are things that make Sherlock mad, James would prefer to know as soon as possible. Better to be forewarned than to get used to something and then learn better.

Soon, he grows bored, so he lays his fingers on the mattress and pretends to play the piano. He’s done this many times in the past three years, and he can still hear the notes echo in his mind. He just wishes he remembered more pieces than the four he has memorized.

In the end, he doesn’t have much of a choice and has to get out of bed. He tiptoes to the bathroom – it’s really not much bigger than a closet – and is very, very careful when he closes the door. He winces when he has to flush; the rushing water sounds terribly loud. He hopes the closed door muffled it a little. When he steps out again, he pauses right outside the door, checks the sofa – and lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Sherlock is still asleep.

Emboldened, James crosses the few feet that separate him from what passes for a kitchen in this tiny apartment. There isn’t anything edible in the cupboards, and the fridge looks like a disaster zone. Grimacing, James gives up on finding food here and returns to the bed. He fixes the sheet and covers quickly, then sets his suitcase by the foot of the bed and opens it. He retrieves his book, and considers the granola bar tucked in the inside pocket. He keeps it for emergencies. Is this an emergency? He’s hungry, but not terribly so. When Sherlock wakes up, James will ask about food. If he doesn’t get to eat then, the granola bar will still be there.

Sitting on the bed with his back to the wall, James reads through the end of Il Principe. He takes his time. He doesn’t have another book, and he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to get another one. He thinks – he hopes – Sherlock might let him choose what he wants to read next. He doesn’t know how he’ll manage to decide if he’s given the choice. There are books he read before he’d love to read again; on the other hand, the possibility of a brand new book to discover is thrilling.

Still, better not to get too excited about that. It might be a long time before they go to a bookstore or library, and even then Sherlock could decide to pick for him. Father always did.

For a long, long time, there isn’t a single sound in the flat, although noises drift in from above and below. And then, someone knocks on the door.

In just a second, James’ heart starts thundering in his chest. Sherlock didn’t say they were expecting company, and he’s still asleep, so he couldn’t have been expecting visits.

Bad. It’s gotta be bad. It’s always bad.

Hurrying to the sofa, James considers prodding Sherlock’s arm to wake him, but he knows better than that. Adults don’t like to be awakened unexpectedly. Standing just out of reach, James whispers Sherlock’s name right as whoever is at the door knocks again. Sherlock finally wakes up.

“There’s someone at the door,” James says. “Are we running?”

Yawning, Sherlock sits up. He grimaces a little – the wound in his side must hurt. Then he considers James with a frown.

“Why would we run?” he grumbles. After a couple of fast blinks, he adds, “No, we’re not running.”

Standing, he goes to the door, wearing nothing more than nightclothes and a robe – and without any weapon James can see. James’ heart pounds a little faster when he opens the door.

He’s not sure what he expected. A killer, maybe. Someone like Sebastian. Maybe even Father. Instead, it’s a tall middle-aged man in a really nice suit who stands there with an envelope in one hand and an umbrella in the other. Sherlock looks surprised but not scared, and when they trade jibes about their respective weight they don’t sound angry or menacing. James starts to relax a little – but only a little – until the man’s eyes fall on him.

Those eyes seem very cold. Not cold like Father’s or Sebastian’s; their eyes always warned that violence could be summoned in an instant. No, this man’s eyes are cold in the same way a computer is cold: learning, analyzing, cataloguing. 

“And who do we have here?” he asks; his voice is cold too, and at the same time not completely unfriendly. How odd.

James looks at Sherlock, wondering whether he should answer, lie, or ignore the question. When Sherlock shakes his head ever so lightly, James supposes that’s his answer. He doesn’t like turning his back to the cold man, so he goes back to the bed very quickly and starts reading his book again. Or at least, he pretends to read, moving his eyes along the lines of text and turning the pages. The truth is, he’s listening to the conversation between Sherlock and… 

His brother. It has to be. They don’t look much alike, but Father said they were very different.

He also said Mycroft Holmes was more dangerous than Sherlock.

“Not more intelligent,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Sherlock’s the smartest brother. But the Ice Man… oh, yes, dangerous. Sherlock works alone, but Mycroft practically has the country working for him. Too bad he doesn’t like games as much as Sherlock does.”

Right now, though, James thinks maybe Father wasn’t completely right. Mycroft Holmes does like games; he’s playing one right now with Sherlock over the knowledge of James’ identity.

And he wins.

When Sherlock tells James to go in the bathroom to clean up before they go out, it’s clearly to get him out of the room. Short of sending him out of the flat, that was pretty much the only option.

James knows what it means when people want him out of the room. They’re going to talk about him.

He takes his suitcase with him into the bathroom, turns on the water and changes into his spare clothes as quickly as he can – which is pretty damn fast. And then he puts his ear to the edge of the door and closes his eyes as he listens. He can hear voices, but not words. They’re talking too softly. Grimacing, he gives up and stands at the sink instead, washing his face then wetting his hair a bit and combing it back. It’s then that he hears Sherlock’s voice as he apparently forgets to whisper.

“You think he’d be better off talking to a psychiatrist?”

It’s not a shout, but it’s a close thing. Clearly, Sherlock doesn’t think much of that idea. That’s good. Neither does James.

Walking out of the bathroom, he finds Mycroft Holmes by the window, and Sherlock close to the kitchen.

“Is that better?” he asks, meaning his clothes and hair.

He’s glad when Sherlock seems to approve; not so glad to realize Sherlock has a smoking habit. For a second, Sebastian’s image flickers through James’ mind, and it’s all he can do to look away from that cigarette – all he can do not to scratch the scars on his chest. They suddenly feel like they’re burning. He goes back to the bed and his book, but before he can start reading Mycroft Holmes says, “Sherlock told me you asked to stay with him.”

James looks at him, then at Sherlock. Is he allowed to answer now? He must be; Sherlock nods.

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“Why? Believe me, he’s not the most pleasant person to be around.”

James has a hard time not rolling his eyes at him. If he thinks Sherlock is not pleasant, James wonders what he’d have thought of Sebastian.

“He’s the smartest person I’m aware of,” he says dryly. “I don’t really care about pleasant.”

“He may think he’s the smartest—” Mycroft Holmes says, glancing at Sherlock. 

James doesn’t let him finish. Sherlock has been nice to him; James won’t let his brother badmouth him if he can stop him. 

Besides, Mycroft Holmes once put Father in a cage, like an animal. On that principle alone, he’s wrong about anything he says.

“Father thought he was the smartest man he knew. Including you, sir.”

When Sherlock grins, something really warm seems to light up inside James like a little ball of sunshine, and he doesn’t even care that Mycroft Holmes must be angry with him – angry enough to turn his back on him and ignore him for a moment as he hands Sherlock the envelope. While Sherlock looks through the contents, however, his brother looks back at James.

“How about… distant cousin?” he asks. “Mummy had a great-uncle who produced a rather alarming number of offspring.”

At first, James doesn’t understand what he means. And then he gets it. That’s the story they’re going to tell people about him. They’re going to say he’s Sherlock’s cousin.

Sherlock is going to let James stay with him.

That ball of sunshine doesn’t feel so small anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have suggestions on scenes you want to see from John's or James' point of view, i'm open.


	6. Regret - TROA 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during chapter 11 of TROA - the trip, first day and first night in Sussex.

It all finally clicks together in the car that’s taking them to Sussex.

It’s not that John didn’t know something was going on. He’s not blind. He’s noticed the deepening circles under Sherlock’s eyes, like bruises that dull and darken his gaze. He’s noticed the uncharacteristic catnaps – although Sherlock always protests he’s only ‘thinking’ and not actually sleeping, quiet snores notwithstanding. He’s noticed the yawns, and Sherlock’s lack of energy.

He just didn’t realize there was more to it than Sherlock’s usual, completely abnormal sleep patterns combined to a mild strop about having to go to his mother’s for the holidays.

But when Sherlock jerks awake right as Bond and the villains du jour engage in a shoot out, when his eyes grow wide and wild, his body suddenly rigid, his brain trying to decide between fight and flight… Well, John has had his fair share of abrupt awakenings from nightmares, enough of them to recognize one on sight.

Were they alone, he’d do more than ask a senseless question that receives an equally senseless answer. But it’s useless to try to get anything out of Sherlock when James is right there. Especially when he, too, seems to see right through Sherlock’s assurances that he’s ‘fine’. Later, he thinks; as soon as they have a moment alone, he’ll bring up the subject. But while the occasion presents itself when Sherlock gives him a tour of the house – although calling it a house would be like calling Buckingham Palace a mansion – John doesn’t press the issue then. Sherlock seems distracted, his mood a little odd.

He has another chance after James goes to sleep, but he can hear quiet sounds nearby; the maid, he thinks. She wouldn’t be any better as a witness than James. So John says goodnight, and hopes that the opportunity to sleep in a real bed will help Sherlock have a better night.

Once he is in his own bed, however, comfortable but unfamiliar and a little cold, he can’t help but think back about the past three years, as Sherlock described them. Of his own admission, he was shot at least once. He was taken and beaten. He was hungry a few times, sleep-deprived far often than that. And he was lonely enough to actually mention it, when years ago he could fling words like ‘alone protects me’ as though they were his deepest truth.

It’s going to take more than a nice bed to give him a good night of sleep – isn’t it?

But what would help at this point?

John wishes he could play for Sherlock beautiful, soothing music, the way Sherlock did for him back when he first moved in 221B, then again more recently; the way he’s been doing for James a little less frequently, lately. But that’s well beyond John’s abilities.

What can he actually do, then? Offer to talk about it? Sherlock has already told John about his adventures – or at least he’d told him about part of it; John strongly suspects he was given a slightly sanitized version of what happened. John’s own experience tells him words don’t always help, but he should at least offer. If nothing else, it’ll open the conversation.

Getting out of bed, he slips on a dressing gown and goes to knock on Sherlock’s door. There’s no answer. He’s not there, of course. John thinks of going back to bed, but pushes back the idea. He’s going to wait for Sherlock, that’s all.

He waits long enough, in fact, that he ends up falling asleep on Sherlock’s bed. But when he wakes up to find Sherlock there, when Sherlock tries to pretend yet again he’s ‘fine’, John finally knows what to do.

And when Sherlock falls asleep curled up around him, John’s only regret is that he didn’t suggest they sleep in the same bed any sooner.


	7. Masks - CFL 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is not at all what i set out to write when i opened my word processor. The muse, she is capricious sometimes.
> 
> Set in chapter 33 of CFL after James learns how his father died and leaves the roof to go see Molly.

Under the harsh lights of Bart’s bathroom, the mirrors are unforgiving. James’ eyes are completely bloodshot, and his face is blotched. He looks like he’s been crying his heart out. Which is rather fitting, because he did. And he still might if he thinks too much.

( _“Think, James. Never stop thinking. The rest of the populace, they only try to think if something or someone forces them to, and when they do their mind is slow and rusty. But we’re different. You and I, we know better, don’t we? We **are** better. And that’s why we’re meant to have power over them all. Because we know how to think.”_ )

Swallowing hard, he shrugs out of his coat and, after a second of hesitation, lays it across the metal radiator in the corner of the room. He takes his jacket off, too, and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling his shirt sleeves up neatly to his elbows. He thinks of taking his tie off, but his hands are still shaking so hard, he’s not sure he’d be able to tie it up again, so instead in tucks it inside his shirt and out of the way.

( _“Sloppy. Take it off and tie it again. And you had better do it right, this time. I’m starting to lose patience and I know you don’t want that.”_ )

When he glances into the mirror again, he still looks like he’s about to cry again and he has to look away or the tears will come back. He turns the faucet on and cups his hands under the flowing water. He watches his hands fill up, then spreads them, letting the water escape, before joining his hands again. Three times, he does the same thing. The fourth time, the water is tepid rather than cold, finally beginning to warm up. He leans forward and presses his face into the small pool between his hands.

( _“Don’t be afraid, Jamie. I’ve got you. Remember, raise your head, breathe deep, stick your head under the water and blow the air through your nose. Then up again. Don’t forget to kick your legs. Ready?”_ )

When he lets the water escape again, droplets clings to his eyelashes. He couldn’t tell if they’re just water or tears. He fills his hands again and this time splashes his face.

( _“I hope to God those aren’t tears, James Philip Moriarty. You **know** how I feel about tears.”_ )

Standing straight again, James turns off the hot water and flicks on the cold faucet. He wets his hands again and presses them to his face, pushing his fingers against his eyes until the tears go away. After doing it a second time, he runs his wet fingers through his hair, combing it back. He looks just like his father when he does that. In the mirror, the dark eyes staring back at him look just like his dad’s, too – except his dad never looked this sad. Did he?

( _“Of course I’m fine, Jamie. It was all part of the plan, remember? Mycroft Holmes thinks he’s so clever, he and his lackeys, but he gave me exactly what I needed. And when I beat Sherlock, that cage won’t seem so bad anymore. Now. Which book are we reading tonight?”_ )

Plucking a few paper towels from the dispenser, James dries his hands first, then his face, dabbing at his cheeks and eyes rather than scrubbing and making his skin red and blotchy again. He hopes Sherlock won’t be mad that he cried so much. But if he was going to be mad, he’d have been mad already. Instead, he let James hug him and cry against him – how embarrassing, really. But he even hugged him back, and that was worth the embarrassment.

( _“Hiding again? I didn’t raise you to hide in dark corners like a frightened rabbit! Come out of there right now. I swear, you’re acting like one of them, one of the idiots that go through the world never understanding what it’s like. Is that what you want? To be an idiot? Oh, I should send you away. Send you to live with Sherlock Holmes for a while. He’s not as patient as I am with foolishness and idiots.”_ )

His fingers are clenching so hard on the towels that a drop of water pearls to the surface of the paper before dropping to the floor with a quiet plop. James doesn’t take his eyes off his reflection in the mirror, schooling his features until he looks calm. Until his smile looks real and not forced, even if he’s not smiling inside.

( _“This one. This one’s the best picture. Look at how happy you are. And it’s not even because you won. They hadn’t announced the winners yet. You knew, didn’t you? You could tell it’d been your best run yet. I could tell too.”_ )

Try as he might to keep it in place, the smile falters, then falls completely off his face. In the mirror, his eyes are starting to gleam wetly again. “My father killed himself,” he whispers, and as quiet as the words are, they still seem to echo through the bathroom, reverberating against tiles and porcelain, coming back toward him like shards that tear him apart until he’s surprised not to be bleeding on the white floor.

( _“Oh for God’s sake it’s just blood! Not even _your_ blood. It’ll wash out! Stop staring at it like I’m going to die. What am I going to do with you if a little blood scares you that much?”_ )

“My father killed himself,” he repeats, just a little louder. Of all the ways he imagined his father might have died, this was never one of them, but somehow he believes Sherlock. He believed him from the moment he said James’ father was dead, all those weeks ago, even though James had spent three years hoping Sebastian had lied and it wasn’t true. He believed him from the moment he said how he’d died today, even though it hurts so much more than to think he died from an accident or at someone else’s hand. Even thinking Sherlock might have killed him and just didn’t want to say so would have been better than this; better than to realize he chose to leave James.

( _“Your face is like a mask. Whatever you want people to see, you can make them see. You don’t have to feel it, but it helps if you remember what it feels like. Like this… what do I look like? Angry, yes. But I’m not angry because you, Jamie, are the smartest little boy in the entire world. You show me your angry face. Angrier than that. There you go. Any angrier and the mirror will break in fear. Can you try happy now? Think of something nice and give me a smile. That’s my boy.”_ )

In the mirror, the smile comes back, little by little. He still doesn’t feel it inside, but he thinks of something nice, and it’s a bit easier. His eyes are still red, but there’s nothing he can do about that. He keeps the smile in place as he rolls his sleeves down, then smoothes his tie out of his shirt. There’s a crease, but when he slides his jacket back on and buttons it, it doesn’t show anymore. He doesn’t put on his coat but keeps it folded over his arm. One last look in the mirror to check that the smile is still in place, and he walks out of the bathroom, taking a left toward the staircase so he can go down to see Molly.

( _“How do I look? Yes, I know, I look better in a suit but it’s for the role. I’ll be meeting Sherlock Holmes today, and I must look the part. Remember that, James. People see what you show them, and believe it. Why wouldn’t they? They’re idiots.”_ )

But when he walks into her office and says hello, Molly smiles at first, but soon she looks at him with the tiniest of frowns, like she can see right through his mask. And when she offers to show him something in the morgue, it’s almost like she’s trying to find something to amuse him – like she can tell there’s too much in his head he doesn’t want to think about right now. 

Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe Father was wrong, sometimes.


	8. Uncle Mycroft - TROA 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during TROA - Chapter 9 when James goes shopping for Christmas presents with Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Tessa <3

James is just finishing his toast when he reaches the street. He brushes a few crumbs off the front of his coat and climbs into the waiting car. Mycroft looks up from his phone and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Did you forget what time I said I was coming?” he says in guise of greeting.

James huffs a little. “No I didn’t. I’d have been ready but Sherlock started changing his mind. He wanted to take me shopping himself.”

A slight smile pulls at Mycroft’s lips. He nods at the driver and the car starts.

“Was he scared I’d work on recruiting you into working for Her Majesty?” he asks, tongue in cheek, while typing on his phone.

“Maybe,” James says, trying – and failing – to sneak a look at what he suspects is a text message to Sherlock. “Are you going to try?”

“Possibly, although I won’t start properly for at least a few years.”

He says it in such a flat, dry tone that James has no idea if he’s joking or not. Surely he can’t mean that. It wasn’t all that long ago that he had reservations about Sherlock even adopting James because of who his father was; surely that’d be even more of a concern if he was to work for the government. But then, why not say so out right?

James is still trying to figure it out when Mycroft’s phone beeps. The message causes that little smile on Mycroft’s lips to widen just a bit – and James realizes why it seems so strange. Has he ever seen Mycroft smile before today? Really smile? He’s always so guarded around Sherlock, as much as Sherlock is around him. James had never really noticed, but now it seems obvious. What a strange relationship they have. They care about each other, that’s obvious too, but it’s as though showing it is unthinkable to both of them.

“So, where are we starting?” Mycroft asks as he pockets the phone. “Do you know what you’re getting them?”

“Books for John,” James says promptly, because he’s spent a lot of times thinking about all the gifts he wants to get. “And I wanted to get some sheet music for Sherlock, something rare maybe but I’m afraid he’s going to guess as soon as I take it home.”

Mycroft gives instructions to the driver before answering.

“A problem easy enough to solve. We’ll get a decoy gift, something he can deduce when you go home, and I’ll keep your real gift safe until Christmas.”

It sounds like the perfect solution, and James suspects he knows why.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Many times while he was growing up,” Mycroft admits with that same slight smile again. “Although not in a few years. I doubt he’ll see it coming.”

Even better, then. There’s just one thing left to figure out…

“I have money,” he says slowly, “but I don’t have a card to use it. I can transfer some to your account and—”

“No,” Mycroft cuts in. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

James grimaces. Sherlock did say Mycroft would refuse, that’s why he gave James his bank card, but it still feels rather silly to buy someone a present using their own bank account, even if some of the money in there is James'.

“It can’t be traced back to my father,” he says, barely louder than a murmur; the driver might be listening. “If you’re worried about that.”

“I’m not,” Mycroft says, his fingers drumming absently against his thigh. “I know it’s untraceable. I’ve had my people take a close look at it. My objection is a matter of principles.”

James’ stomach twists rather unpleasantly and he turns his head to look out of the window, although he doesn’t see much of the passing London behind the glass. 

Of course. He should have seen it coming. Mycroft seems to be a very serious, honorable person. He wouldn’t want anything to do with money that’s tainted by the way it was acquired. Come to think of it, James didn’t really give Sherlock a choice, all those weeks ago. Maybe he’d have objected too. James had never really thought about it before; never really lingered on where his money came from. On one hand it’s not his fault his father did whatever he did; on the other hand, does he become complicit if he uses the money?

Now even using the card in his pocket feels wrong. Maybe he should just forget about gifts and ask Mycroft to take him home.

“I fear I may not have made myself clear,” Mycroft says suddenly.

Even before he turns to look at him, James can feel Mycroft’s eyes on him, scrutinizing him, dissecting him, _deducing_ him in a way that’s extremely familiar.

“When I say principles, I mean I would feel quite remiss if I accepted money from a child—” He clears his throat at James’ frown and corrects himself. “—young man, even more so when he’s my nephew. I’ll pay for the gifts, don’t trouble yourself about it.”

James stares at him, not quite sure how to reply. He’s called Mycroft ‘uncle’ a few times, but mostly to tease him, and because it amuses Sherlock. He didn’t realize Mycroft might take it seriously. But he does look absolutely serious now, and James isn’t quite sure what to say, except for a quiet, “Thank you.”

When Mycroft drops him home a few hours later and James says, “Thank you Uncle Mycroft,” he means it. He really does. And Mycroft’s smile doesn’t seem so strange and unfamiliar anymore.


	9. Of Horses and Wishes - TROA 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James' POV of his birthday (chapter 14 of TROA)  
> Seemed like an appropriate day to post this.

The last birthday James celebrated, complete with cake and gifts, was when he turned nine years old. He barely remembers it. It feels like entire lifetimes have elapsed since then, and that he’s become an entirely different person. And maybe he _is_ different. He has a different family, a different home, a different name. His fears are very different, and so are his nightmares. But his hopes are much, much brighter.

When he gets up on the morning of his thirteenth birthday, it’s with some sense of excitement as he wonders what a birthday is like in the Holmes family. He’s seen Christmas already, with its traditional food and the opening of presents, but a birthday should be a little different. He knows that there’ll be cake, as Louise asked him what kind he’d like, but other than that…

He starts dressing up the way he always does, but halfway through buttoning his shirt he changes his mind and puts on the clothes John got him for Christmas instead. The jumper is nice and warm, the wool very fine, and the jeans fit him right. For years, he’s been made to wear jeans that were either too long or too short, and he’s come to despise denim, but this is comfortable enough that he could get used to this. Not for every day but once in a while.

When he goes down to the dining room for breakfast, he is greeted by a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ from Sherlock, his mom and John. Really, he shouldn’t be so pleased, they’re just words. But it does feel nice, after all this time.

And it’s just as nice to be treated to a surprise outing. As Sherlock drives them into town, James pesters him to know where they’re going – and John joins him in his efforts to get something out of Sherlock – but he’s almost glad Sherlock says nothing. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be surprised.

And he’s surprised again, a few minutes after they start their breakfast-slash-sampling of delicious goodies, when Sherlock introduces him to someone as his son. James has called him ‘Dad’ a couple of times, but it always feels a little odd. A little forbidden, too. Until now, though, Sherlock had only called him his son once, and he was shamming at the time.

This time, he means it, and it feels very special that he used the word today, like an extra gift.

Back at Louise’s home, the torture commences. The presents are _right there_ , a little tower of brightly wrapped packages, and he’s not allowed to open even one despite all his pleading. Worse; they’re not just waiting for Mycroft to arrive. He’s supposed to wait until after lunch.

For a second, he thinks of pleading some more, and saying that he’s always been allowed to open his gifts first thing in the morning on previous birthdays. In the end, he keeps that to himself; the last time James referred to what his father used to allow, Sherlock did not take it all that well. It’s weird, because most of the time Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind if James mentions his father, but every now and then he does. The last thing James wants is to upset him, but he knows he does. Sometimes, it’s just hard to tell in advance. For this, at least, he’s fairly sure he’s better off holding his tongue.

Lunch is good, with things that James enjoys eating, but he’s just too impatient to really taste anything. Finally, just before dessert, he’s allowed to open his presents. The first one confuses him. He’s not sure what he’s going to need a car for, if not for going to school. But then, the other presents start forming a picture he’s a little afraid to attach words to in case he’s wrong. He hasn’t told Sherlock how much he misses riding, because that’s just not the sort of things that’d fit in their lives, would it? They’re always running left and right for cases, and next week James is starting school anyway so there’s no time.

Except… Except apparently they will find time somehow, because this really is what it looks like.

_“For your tenth birthday, you can have your very own horse. But only if you’re a good boy, Jamie.”_

That’s what Father had promised. But as good as James was, his tenth birthday came and went without a horse, or Father, or cake, or anything. When James mentioned it was his birthday to Sebastian—

No. He’s not thinking of Sebastian. Not today.

This isn’t what Father had promised, not his very own horse, but in an odd way it’s almost better because he didn’t expect this at all. He’s not sure how to tell everyone how much he likes their presents, but he tries, with thank you’s and hugs. Louise and Mycroft hug the same way Sherlock used to: like they’re not quite sure how it’s done. It makes him a little sad. John is better at it. And Sherlock has improved a lot since the first time James hugged him, like he’s getting used to it.

It’s been a wonderful birthday, and James promises himself to make sure Sherlock knows it. But then, everything changes, with one last surprise, one last gift.

For years, James made a wish on his birthday. He’d close his eyes, imagine a cake and candles, imagine himself blowing them off so his wish would come true. But now that it has, now that his father is back, he doesn’t know how to feel anymore, doesn’t know whether he wishes it’s really him or not. 

The absolute worst part, though, is that he does know Sherlock lied to him. And that hurts more than he ever imagined.


	10. Easier - TROA 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during chapter 30 of TROA.
> 
> Heavy, heavy warnings for suicidal thoughts and gesture.
> 
> No, i apparently can't keep promises i make to myself.

It doesn’t go like James planned.

It doesn’t go like he planned _at all_.

Getting out of school unseen is easy enough. Mycroft’s men are there to protect him, they never expected to have to stop him from leaving. He made note of all the CCTV cameras around the school so he can avoid them. And since he has no class at the end of the day, no one realizes he’s missing until he fails to get out with the other students on the last bell.

Going across town isn’t particularly difficult either. He has some change and he takes the tube, having researched where to get in and out again. If Sebastian taught him something useful, it’s to move through a crowd or a deserted street as though he belongs there so as not to arouse suspicions.

The first hitch comes when he’s just minutes away from his old home. He spots the CCTV camera too late, and as he’s crossing the street he can’t duck out of the way. Worse, he distinctly sees the camera move to follow him. 

He knew there was a strong probability they’d find him before he returned to them, but he still hoped he’d have time to go, grab the gun and leave again before he was spotted. 

He hurries after that, his heart pounding and his hand shaking a little when he presses in the code. He pauses for just a second inside the door when he notices the flour on the floor is gone. He almost wants to call out, but then remembers – Mycroft was here, or at least his men. He’s heard it mentioned. They must have cleaned up rather than leaving easy to follow tracks everywhere. And anyway, Father wouldn’t come here. He’d know the place was compromised.

Not for the first time, he wonders if they found his gun. Surely they wouldn’t have been looking for one in his room. They must have had other, more important things to find. Right?

He drops his school bag in the entrance, runs up the steps ( _“Don’t run in the staircase, Jamie.”_ ), and holds his breath when he enters his bedroom. It looks as undisturbed as the last time he came here. It feels like ages and ages ago.

He unbuttons his coat and drops down to his knees in front of the bed, reaching under blindly. The dust tells him no one looked under there recently. That’s good. He trails his fingers over the wood, searching the small indentation Father carved there when he gave James the gun. His fingertip slides underneath easily, and he removes the wood slat. He reaches in and removes the gun, still in its holder, from its hiding place. Then he stands, sits on the edge of the bed, and considers the gun in his hand.

He’s already decided he wouldn’t take the holster. It would be ideal if he could wear it and have the gun with him all the time, but he knows Sherlock would notice in a minute. So, no holster. He pulls the gun out, and stuffs the holster in the bedside table.

What remains in his hands still feels familiar, even after all this time. Sebastian knew better than to let him near his gun (except for that one time, and James isn’t thinking about that, not now not ever) but Father taught James well, and he remembers. He blows off a few specks of dust, then removes the magazine, inspects it, and slides it in place again. The one thing that’s different is that the gun doesn’t feel too big for his hand anymore, or too heavy.

And shooting it might not feel quite as bad if he has a really good—

“James!”

He startles as Sherlock’s voice bellows through the house, and raises his head in alarm, almost expecting to find him on the threshold of his room. He’d calculated he’d have more time than that. They can’t possibly have been in Baker Street.

He stands and pushes the gun in his pocket, making sure again that the safety is on. Then he brushes dust from his knees and sleeves, checks the bottom of his coat, and only when he’s satisfied he doesn’t look like he just crawled under furniture does he start going down.

At first, it goes like he’d imagined it would. He didn’t want things to go this way, but he thought they might, so he figured out what he’d say, and Sherlock replies just as expected – if a bit more loudly. He’s never shouted at James, not like this, and it’s all too easy to get upset in reply.

But then…

Then it goes wrong. 

Somehow, Sherlock knows about the gun. Somehow, it ends up in James’ hand. And then against his own head. And that’s not what he wanted, God, it’s really not, and he couldn’t even say why he lifted it, why he took the safety off, why he’s actually considering this…

But he _is_ considering it.

If he’s gone, through no one’s fault but his own, then no one else would die because of him. It would all stop.

The murders would stop. And the fear. And the pain. And the memories. And the waiting. 

And Sherlock would be safe. And John, too. And Mycroft and Louise.

And Father would know exactly what it feels like to have someone choose dying over coming back to him.

Maybe Sherlock would be sad for a while, maybe even John, but they’d have each other, and James isn’t really Sherlock’s son anyway, even if he wishes he were, and he’s not John’s either, and they haven’t even known him all that long, and if they really want a child they could adopt one together, someone who’s not broken like James is, someone who’s not missing bits of himself, someone who’s stronger, and who doesn’t hurt them all the time without meaning to. Someone who isn’t about to be reclaimed by a killer. Someone who would never put a gun to his own head without quite knowing why, except that it seems easier than any other option.

Easier than crying – again. Easier than being weak – again. Easier than wondering, day after day, if today is the day Father gets tired of his game.

… But not easier than hearing Sherlock say it’d be like killing him too. Not easier than to see the fear on his face, and John’s. Or hearing it in his voice.

He said ‘loved’. He’d never said it before. He’d never say it if he didn’t mean it. Not this one word.

James isn’t sure when the gun goes down exactly. He doesn’t recall telling his body to do that. But he lets Sherlock take it. Lets himself hug him. Lets himself cry and beg like he’s just a frightened little kid – maybe that’s all he is, and thinking he could keep them safe was stupid.

Lets himself hope that, even though Sherlock was wrong about Father being dead, maybe, just maybe he can be right about everything turning out all right in the end.


	11. Second Time - TROA 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For starrla89
> 
> Set during and after Chapter 26 of TROA
> 
> Sexy times ahead, although i don't think they require changing my T rating for this fic. I meant to write a more explicit version but John seemed oddly reluctant to share that much...

It’s nothing like John expected.

Then again, is anything ever what John expects, with Sherlock?

He thought it’d be awkward, what with him not having a very clear idea of the specifics. Not to say he’s clueless. He’s a doctor, he knows how the human body works, he can find a prostate, and he… educated himself on the internet. Just the same, he’d never imagined sharing a bed with a man before Sherlock. And even after meeting him, even if John had entertained the thought in passing – which he didn’t, not really – he’d have been fairly certain Sherlock wouldn’t be interested.

Clearly he was mistaken.

He also supposed there might be some discomfort, maybe even a little pain. He was ready for it, ready to ask Sherlock to slow down if necessary. 

But in the end, it isn’t necessary.

If it’s nothing like John expected, if it’s more simple, so much easier than he thought it’d be, it’s still just as satisfying as other things they might try later on.

And hearing Sherlock say those words, months after John offered them to him… that’s unexpected, too, and much more than satisfying.

That in the middle of the spectacular mess they're in Sherlock can still say this and be here in this bed with John... It means everything.

“That… was pretty brilliant,” he says a little while later, when the afterglow has started fading and they’ve cleaned up a little. They’re on their sides, facing each other, eyes open, and he just needed to say something.

He regrets it as soon as he says it; silly remark, really. Good sex does tend to make him say silly things.

But Sherlock doesn’t laugh or roll his eyes. He doesn’t comment on John’s eloquence or lack thereof. Instead, he smiles a bit bashfully. His cheeks even pink up a little. And John is very, very glad the lamp on the night table is on so he can see that smile and that bit of a blush.

“Even if it wasn’t what you anticipated?” Sherlock asks after a few seconds.

John shrugs. “I should have known that the obvious wasn’t going to work with you.”

That earns him a raised eyebrow. “The obvious, hmm? So if I were to put my mouth on you, it would be too obvious?”

John’s mouth instantly turns as dry as ash. He opens it to respond… but nothing comes out whatsoever.

“I was thinking about it,” Sherlock says, his voice growing deeper even as it becomes quieter. His eyes, suddenly a little darker, pin John in place. “Over the past few weeks you’ve demonstrated your affection more often with kissing than with touching. A slight margin, I’ll admit, but I’ve been wondering if you might have an oral fetish. Or at the very least a magnified interest in feeling my mouth on your body.”

The entire time, John can’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s lips. When Sherlock’s tongue darts out to moisten them, he has to bite down on his own or risk moaning aloud. That’d certainly give Sherlock an answer to the question he isn’t asking. Although John’s continued staring must be an answer, too.

“Would you have any objections to me testing out my theory?” Sherlock asks, sliding a little closer, close enough that John can feel the heat radiating from him.

Objections, no. Doubts, however…

“I think you might be overestimating me,” he manages to say with a twisted little smile. “My body’s going to need a bit more time than that before we have another go.”

It’s all too easy to see that Sherlock takes this as a challenge.

And it’s all too easy for him to win that challenge, prove John wrong, and confirm his hypothesis. All too easy for him to make John forget that they ought to be quiet.

John’s only consolation – if he requires consoling after another _brilliant_ orgasm – is that he, too, can make Sherlock cry out in need.


	12. Strange Day - TROA 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Chapter 31 of TROA - John and James' conversation while waiting for Sherlock.

What a strange, strange day.

If John wasn’t so completely drained, he just might laugh at how ridiculous it is that he is sitting here, in Moriarty’s house, with a gun in his hands.

Three years dead – or at least John hopes so – and that bloody man still messes with their lives as efficiently as he always did.

But John doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t cry either, though he came close to it earlier. He _is_ drained, too much so for any emotion anymore. It’s been a strange, long day.

It didn’t start all that well, what with James and Sherlock having a row first thing in the morning. The run around town after that was better. John likes James, he really does, but it was nice to work on the case alone with Sherlock, the way it used to be, back in the beginning.

Things pretty much went to hell after that. Worrying about James and being all but shut out by Sherlock was tough, but walking into this house and finding James with a gun was worse. And watching him raise that gun to his own head…

John knows he’s going to have nightmares about this. And he’ll be lucky if other, older nightmares don’t resurface as well. As if there weren’t enough nightmares in 221B already.

Slow steps are coming down behind him. He glances back, and James pauses briefly before taking the last few steps and sitting next to him, much like Sherlock did earlier.

“Where’s your dad?” John asks

The use of the word is just as deliberate as when he used ‘son’ with Sherlock a few moments ago. If these two are too stubborn or too scared to use those words, John has no problem forcing the issue. He’s stood by and watched them hurt each other without meaning to long enough; no more. And he must be right, because James doesn’t react to the word, not any more than Sherlock did, as though there’s nothing special or unusual about it. Really, how can two people be so smart and yet act like such idiots at times?

“In the bathroom,” James says, his gaze directed at the gun in John’s hands.

Suddenly wishing he’d put the gun out of sight sooner, John reaches behind him and slides it behind his belt at the small of his back. The magazine is already tucked into his pocket.

James’ eyes follow his movements, and John half-expects him to say something about the gun, or the use he threatened to make of it. Instead, he lowers his voice and asks, “Did you ever see him cry before?”

John glances up the empty staircase before he answers.

“A few times when he was shamming for a case. Not once when the tears were real. At least not until today.”

He watches as James worries his thumbnail with his teeth, his gaze now staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.

“Nothing wrong with crying,” John says after clearing his throat.

James blinks and looks at him, frowning lightly.

“He said the same thing. But I didn’t think he’d ever cry because of me.”

“What better reason would he have?”

John doesn’t feel like he said anything very deep, but James’ eyes widen and he mouths John’s question silently, like it bears repeating, like it bears remembering—like it’s hard to believe.

“But I’m not…” James shakes his head. “I’m just…”

He doesn’t seem to know how to finish, which is just as well. Despite everything that’s been happening, John feels a grin tug at his lips.

“There’s nothing ‘just’ about you. Do you think Sherlock would care that much if you were ‘just’?”

James returns his grin hesitantly. “Like you, then.”

John’s first instinct is to protest that the situation is completely different, but maybe in a way it’s not; after all, they both stumbled into Sherlock’s life and found a place there against all odds.

And they both thought of getting too friendly with a gun until Sherlock made them reconsider.

“Maybe a bit,” he offers, and falls silent when he hears Sherlock coming down toward them.

Looking at the child at his side, he somehow feels a little closer to him.

What a strange, strange day.


	13. Texts - TRAO 33-34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery for chapters 33 and 34 of TROA - chapter 34 has not been posted yet at the time of posting this, so if you want to be completely unspoiled you might want to wait to read this chapter.
> 
> James mentioned texts... here they are.

If the pictures don't show, check [this tumblr post](http://prettyvk.tumblr.com/post/124580658402/more-apologies-for-posting-old-material-the-ao3).


	14. Ill-Timed - TROA 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during Chapter 33 of TROA. Why John left 221B.

John isn’t halfway down the street when he starts having second thoughts. He almost stops, almost turns on his heel and returns home. Almost. He keeps going.

What more would he do in 221B?

Sherlock is locked in his mind, reluctant to let anyone in to help – and John is more than aware of that after several failed attempts to get his attention in the past hour. John probably could have left without a word and Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Although to be fair, it hasn’t happened since his return, and John fully understands why this case is different.

As for James, he’ll probably stay in his room until they hear anything new about Molly, and God knows when that will be. Besides, it’s not as though John has any idea what he could tell him to make him feel any better.

John worries about Molly as much as they do – and about James, especially after yesterday, and about Sherlock, especially since it’s someone apparently related to Moriarty who’s toying with them – but he just can’t bear to stay in and wait for news.

It feels like waiting is all they’ve been doing since James’ birthday and that bloody video. Waiting for the next murder, the next message, the next clue. Waiting for all this to come to its end. No Greenwich pips, this time, but John still has to stop himself from flinching every time Sherlock’s phone rings. 

From the moment he decided he couldn’t stay home doing nothing, he knew where he’d go. The thought has been nagging him since they came back from Sussex. When he realized he wouldn’t be in town for Christmas, he promised himself – promised Mary – he’d visit her grave as soon as he came back. And then Moriarty happened – or whoever.

 _And then Moriarty happened._ The thought is like an icy finger trailing at the nape of his neck, where he feels much too vulnerable, and he shifts a little on his tube seat, taking comfort in the hard metal shape that digs into his skin at the small of his back.

‘And then Moriarty happened’ is a pretty accurate summary of his time with Sherlock, from their very first case, their very first day together onward. And even if this one is not the one they knew, they seem to think and act alike, too much so for comfort.

But as unsettlingly familiar as it feels to have their lives turned upside down by a mad man, it’s still not a good enough excuse for him not to visit the graveyard. The itch has been there, just out of reach, for a full week. Now might not be the best time to satisfy it, but, yet again, he reminds himself he isn’t needed in Baker Street right this second.

The tube leaves him three streets away from his destination. He stops at the small shop on the way, buys flowers like he always does, and walks on.

He knows, of course, that the flowers, like the visit, like the words he’ll give the cold marble are for himself and no one else. He knows that she’s not there, growing sad that he hasn’t visited in so long, wondering if he’s forgotten her already now that he has Sherlock. He knows all that, but he doesn’t care. She was his wife and he loved her – loves her, still, in a painful kind of way, full of regrets for every year they didn’t get to spend together, full of guilt for every smile, every kiss, every touch, every night he spends with Sherlock.

This helps, he thinks absently as he clears wilted flowers off her grave and lays down the white roses. Proving – to himself if to no one else – that he still cares for her, still thinks about her, it helps him deal with the guilt, helps him move forward, little by little. And so he stands there and tells her, tells the stone, tells himself, sotto voce, about everything that happened since the last time he came here.

He tells about Sussex, and Sherlock’s mother, and the first night he and Sherlock spent in the same bed – but not about Sherlock’s nightmares.

He tells about Christmas, and James’ birthday – the good parts when Sherlock called John his partner or when James was so happy, and the not so good parts after that.

He tells about coming back to London, and chasing ghosts amongst crime scenes, and how painful it is to watch Sherlock struggle, to see him pull away when, so often before, he turned to John for help, or at least support.

He tells about James, and how much he’s come to care for that child, and how he thinks James is a lot more like Sherlock than he is like Moriarty, and how he wonders if the two of them even realize it.

He tells, even more quietly now, about the scars on Sherlock’s back, and sharing a bed with him, no longer in a platonic way, and how he knows it’s only been a few short months since he lost Mary but he also knows she wanted him to be happy.

He starts to tell about how worried he is that this happiness will be taken away from him again, but someone clears their throat somewhere behind him, and he turns, startled, one hand instinctively going for the gun.

“Captain Watson,” the man says, “you’re needed back in Baker Street.”

The first thing that runs through John’s mind is that no one has called him ‘captain’ in a while, except for Sherlock.

The second is that this must be one of his bodyguards – but that it could just as well be someone trying to kidnap him.

That second hypothesis is quickly put to rest when his phone rings. He pulls it out with his right hand, keeping the left on the gun, and keeping his eyes on the man.

“John,” Mycroft says briskly when he picks up. “Go with my men. Now.”

“Is Sherlock—” he starts, but Mycroft cuts in at once.

“No. It’s James. I’ll see you in Baker Street.”

And with that, he hangs up.

John spends the whole ride back cursing himself for his ill-timed visit even as he repeatedly dials Sherlock’s number, then James’. Neither of them answers.


	15. Choices - TROA 33 through 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, what has been going on with James from the moment he chose to go to the moment he chose to call for help.
> 
> Warning for violence against a child. I was going to say 'mild violence' but there's no such thing, is there?

The message on the mirror stays with James all the way back to Baker Street. He knows Sherlock thinks it’s addressed to him, but James knows better. That one… that one was for him. It’s the end, isn’t it? The point where he can’t pretend anymore that things are going to get better.

Up in his room—

No. He can’t think of it as his room. It’s not that anymore.

Up in the second bedroom, he pulls out his phone. His hand has been curled over it ever since they left Molly’s flat, so tightly that his fingers hurt a little as he uncurls them. There’s no text waiting for him. His father said a few days ago that James would go to him of his own free will.

It starts with him sending a text message first rather than replying to something. In just moments, the decision is made. Then again, it was made in front of that mirror.

*

The idea comes to him as he retrieves the sleeping pills, which he’s kept inside the sheep plush toy since he stole them. As he draws them out with two fingers from the rip he made under the sheep’s belly, it occurs to him again that he could hide something else in there. Something bigger. He’d thought he might stick his gun in there, but John took it, and James doesn’t know where he keeps it. He could look for it, of course. But maybe it’s better if he doesn’t. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t have access to a weapon right now. He’s not sure what he would do with it if he had it.

No, that kind of plan B might not be as good an idea as he thought when he decided to go get the gun. But there’s something else he can take. Something else that might allow him to get help if he needs it. He’s already decided to leave his phone behind so Sherlock can see the texts. He could take Sherlock’s phone, he supposes, but he suspects he’s going to be searched, and that his phone will be taken from him. He needs to carry a phone so it won’t be suspicious, so he needs something else as a potential link. It’s easy to figure out what.

He takes care of the pills first: setting them in the center of a piece of paper, he crushes them down to a fine powder with the back of a spoon he’s been keeping up here for this very purpose. Four pills for two adults. No risk; he checked online.

Folding the piece of paper carefully over the powder, he slides it in his pocket and considers the sheep on the bed. His new plan B has been solidifying as he worked, and he knows just what to do. He draws the first aid box he hasn’t needed for months from under the bed. Scissors first; a few careful nips along the seam. The needle is already threaded. 

He checks that his e-reader is fully charged before pushing it inside the open belly of the sheep. He has to pull out some of the fluffy stuffing, and it’s a tight fit, but it works.

He has a bit of a scare when he hears steps in the staircase, but he quickly realizes they’re going down, not coming up. John’s gait, he thinks. That might complicate things. Where did he go? How long until he comes back? James might have to wait until he returns to make tea.

He finishes sewing the sheep back up, then sticks it in his backpack. After a brief hesitation, he puts in his copy of The Little Prince, too.

He leaves the backpack by his door on his way down. The crushed pills in his pocket feel extraordinarily heavy as he goes down the steps.

*

He should have written a letter.

It’s all James can think of as he rambles on and on, watching Sherlock struggle against sleep, waiting for the car to come for him. 

He should have written a letter, put it all down into careful words, something Sherlock could have kept, if he wanted to, rather than these disjointed thoughts that he’ll probably forget before he wakes up.

He should have told him about the text messages.

He should have trusted Sherlock wouldn’t deliberately lie to him.

He should have guessed earlier that Molly was in danger.

He should have done _something_ differently, anything. Then maybe he wouldn’t be about to leave behind everything and everyone he’s learned to care about.

‘Should’ is easy. He’s made choices. Too late to change them now. And too late to write a letter.

*

In the empty locker room, James sits on a bench and hesitates for the first time. Is he supposed to actually go on a ride? He thought he’d get taken on the way to the centre, or that there’d be someone waiting for him in here.

A door opens as he’s still trying to figure out what to do. A man comes in, and when his eyes scan the room as he approaches, James tenses. He knows. This is it.

When the man reaches him, there’s a flicker of recognition on his face. He nods once, and drops a bulging shopping bag on the bench next to James.

“We don’t have much time,” he says in a low voice. “Give me your phone.”

James does as he’s told… or almost. It’s Sherlock’s phone he surrenders – Sherlock’s phone that is soon smashed to bits under a heavy boot.

“Now strip,” the man says next. “Put on the clothes from the bag. Hurry.”

James doesn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t if he tried. It’s all he can do not to let his breath come in ragged pants.

Father didn’t say—

And he _knows_ , damn him, he knows and still he wants James to—

“I said hurry,” the man says, his eyes narrowing.

James’ chest hurts from his heart pounding so fast. He tries to breathe through it, like John taught him, but it’s hard.

Why would his father want him to strip in front of a stranger? Why would he—

Oh.

Of course. It’s a test. 

He wants to know how James reacts. How damaged he is. How _weak_ he is.

Of course.

Getting to his feet feels like running the last straight line of a marathon. Raising a hand to undo his coat buttons is like lifting weights.

“Why?” he asks, proud of himself when his voice doesn’t shake on that single word.

“Because it’s much too easy to hide GPS trackers inside clothing. I told you to hurry.”

Slipping the coat off, James folds it neatly and sets it on the bench. One of the first things Sherlock bought for him, and he can’t even take it with him. He hadn’t really believed Father would let him keep it, not when it’s exactly like Sherlock’s, but he’d had a tiny bit of hope…

His boots are next. His birthday present from John. He bites down the inside of his cheek and straighten up to tug his tie loose. The man is watching him, clearly growing impatient.

“Turn around,” James says, and it’s not a request, it’s an order. Father taught him the difference, long ago.

The man barks out a laugh. “You do what I say, not the other way around. And I told you to get a move on. We need to get out of here before someone comes to look for you.”

James’ fingers are trembling a little, but he makes himself continue to unbutton his shirt, grateful for the undershirt beneath it.

“Turn around,” he says again, more harshly, now. “Or I’ll tell my father you were leering at me. Maybe I’ll even say you put your hands on me. We’ll see if he takes off your eyes or your fingers first.”

The man’s eyes widen a little. “Your father—” he starts, not quite as steadily as before.

“Your employer,” James cuts in. “You do know what he’s capable of, don’t you? Who do you think he’ll believe, me or you?”

It’s all James can do not to collapse in relief when the man crosses his arms and finally turns around. Quickly now, he finishes to strip. It feels like he’s shedding James Holmes and leaving him behind. He’s not getting back into James Moriarty’s skin, though, not when the clothes he’s being made to wear are slightly too long jeans, a rather garish jumper, sneakers and a parka. It feels like being on the run with Sebastian all over again.

There’s another bit of a hitch when the man wants him to leave the backpack behind. James shows him the plush toy and book.

“My father gave me those,” he says darkly. “Birthday presents. I am not going anywhere without them.”

The man hesitates. Throwing a glance at his watch, he agrees James can keep the book and toy, but not the backpack. He never so much as gives a second glance to the sheep. Idiot.

They walk out through a service entrance. No one is there to stop them.

*

There’s a bruise on Molly’s cheek.

It’s all James can see.

Oh, he’s aware of the four men in the abandoned office, all of them carrying guns, two on guard duty, one in front of a laptop, and the one who came to get him. He knows they’re there, but all he can see is that bruise, and Molly’s wide-eyed worry when she sees him.

“Which one of them hurt you?” he asks her as he goes to her.

She shakes her head and babbles about not wanting him to get hurt in her place. James turns to the men, considering them one after the other. One of them is rubbing his knuckles as he returns James’ look blankly.

“You,” James says in his coldest voice. “You hurt her, didn’t you?”

The man shrugs. “Stupid cow wouldn’t stop struggling.”

James considers him for a few more seconds, making sure he can describe him properly, then he says, “My father promised me she wouldn’t be harmed. You’ll be lucky if he lets you live after I tell him you broke his promise for him.”

He turns back to Molly, but he can feel four pairs of eyes on him, and silence weighs on the room, making it feel like a lead-lined coffin.

*

From the riding centre to the empty building to a car to a small plane, James keeps thinking that surely, his father will finally come out. When the next door opens, when James is ushered in the next room, his father will be there. He’ll smile that thin, clever smile of his. He’ll say James’ name. He’ll send everyone away and… and then what?

Hug James? Apologize for faking his own death? For leaving him with Sebastian? Make promises? Explain everything he did in the past few years? Ask questions?

Try as he might, James can’t imagine any of it. 

When the plane lands on a small airport strip, James sets foot for the first time in his life on Irish soil. Father had always said he’d take James there, some day.

A black car is waiting that makes James think of Mycroft. He pushes that thought away. He’s trying very hard not to think of Baker Street and the people tied to it. His fingers tighten on the plastic bag he holds, bulging with the sheep and book. As he approaches the car, the driver comes out to open the back door. James holds his breath, thinking that’s it, that’s him… but it’s not. Out comes an old man, his hair a mix of white and gray, his eyes dark and cold. He holds a cane with a silver pommel in one hand, though he doesn’t use it as he takes a few steps forward. He’s dressed in a dark suit, complete with waistcoat and tie. James thinks of Mycroft again.

“Hello, James,” the man says gravely. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

James peeks into the car through the open door behind the man. There’s no one else in there.

“Are you going to take me to my father?” he asks.

The man tilts his head ever so slightly in a gesture that feels incredibly familiar.

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

James swallows hard and nods.

The car ride takes almost half an hour. They stop by a church, which is a strange place where to meet Father, but James long ago stopped trying to understand him. The man tells James to leave his things in the car. Outside, he sets his hand on James’ shoulder and guides him without a word into the small graveyard next to the church.

James’ throat tightens as his heart beats faster and faster. He’s starting to understand, but he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want his hunch to turn out right, doesn’t want to see…

And then he does.

A gleaming tombstone of black marble stands next to two identical ones, but while the other two look like they’ve been here for years, this one is new. Fresh flowers lay in front of it, all of them blood red. James can’t look past the first name, engraved in gold.

His first name.

His father’s, too.

He feels like he’s going to be sick. Or maybe cry. He’s not sure which would be worse. The man’s hand tightens a little over his shoulder.

“I couldn’t leave him in London,” he says. “Forgotten in a nameless grave, with no one to visit, no one to even know who he was. This is where he belongs, with the rest of our family.”

Unbidden, James’ eyes drift to the other stones. Rowena Moriarty, loving mother and wife, with a date of death that matches the birth date on the third tomb, rests next to Philip Moriarty, second of the name, beloved son, who died at sixteen.

Mother and brother, James thinks, feeling completely numb. Which makes the man at his side—

“You’re my grandfather,” he says blankly. “All this time I thought you were him, even when Sherlock said—”

The grip on his shoulder tightens again, this time to the point of pain, and James grits his teeth rather than crying out.

“Do not say that cursed man’s name,” his grandfather snaps. “Especially not here, not when he’s the reason your father is in the ground rather than with us.”

 _My father is in the ground because he put a gun to his own head,_ James thinks, but he keeps the words to himself and says instead, “I’d like to go, now.”

They return to the car. Only when it’s rolling again does the man say, “I never pretended to be him. I never lied to you.”

His gaze fixed unseeingly on the countryside passing by his window, James nods absently. That’s true. The man never lied outright. He let James believe, let him assume, didn’t correct him, but he never came out and said plainly, ‘I’m your father’. James saw what he wanted to see. He’s a fool.

“What should I call you?” he asks, trying hard not to remember the time, months ago, when he asked the same question to Mrs. Holmes.

“You may call me Grandfather. Or sir, if you want.”

James nods again. There’s a growing void inside him. The bag, with the sheep and what it contains rests at his feet. He wishes he dared holding it to his chest.

*

It’s already dark when they get to a mansion behind secure gates. He’s introduced to the staff – the cook-slash-maid, her groundskeeper-slash-butler husband, their daughter, a little older than James, who helps her mum around the house. James’ grandfather makes it a point of mentioning that five guards keep the property safe. James takes that as the warning it is.

They have supper, just the two of them, at a table big enough to host twelve guests. James eats what is put in front of him but tastes none of it. The silence is stifling. James tries not to think of take-out eaten on the sofa in front of the telly.

After dessert, he’s shown around the house. The library is full to bursting and yet each book seems perfectly aligned with the ones next to it. A gleaming baby grand, a twin to the one in James’ old home, stands in the music room as though waiting for him, but James feels no desire to play. Sitting room, conservatory, office, second library… every inch of wood gleams, every surface is impeccably clean and free of clutter; it feels terribly cold and empty, and James catches himself missing the small, warm chaos of 221B.

But no, he can’t. He’s made his choice and now he has to live with it, even if it’s not the choice he thought it was.

His bedroom on the second floor feels much too big, as does the bed. A wooden desk stands under the window, and even the polish can’t quite hide some scratches marring the top. A wall of shelves is already well furnished with books, some of them looking rather battered as though they’ve been read countless times. James’s chest tightens a little as he remembers Sussex – as he understands.

“It was his room, wasn’t it?” he asks quietly.

It was.

For a long, long time that night, James tries to decide how he feels about sleeping in his father’s old room, in his bed, with his things all around him.

All he can think of is that it’s very, very different from having his father there.

*

There are clothes in the wardrobe, suits and ties, all perfectly tailored for him.

His grandfather gives James lessons, much like his father did, much like Sherlock did. He’s appalled when he discovers that James doesn’t know a single word of Gaelic, and for a moment when it looks as though he’ll lose his temper, James forgets to breathe.

When he’s not teaching James, he’s usually locked up in his office, working, and James is free to do as he pleases.

Sometimes, he plays the piano, but the notes don’t sound quite right as they echo in the music room.

Freedom tastes like the rust of old chains.

*

After a couple of days, the car takes them to a farm an hour or so away. James is shown to a small enclosure, where five foals are playing with each other. They’re the most beautiful thing James has ever seen.

“Pick one,” his grandfather says.

James looks at him incredulously, and he laughs as he repeats, “Pick one. I told you, you’re long overdue.”

After watching them all for a long, long time, James chooses the black one with a white spot that starts just above his blue eyes and stops a little above his nose. James decides to call him Prince.

The foal is too young still to be taken away from his mother, but James can visit, and help train him, and when he’s old enough he’ll come to live in the barn behind the mansion.

“It’s nice to know you can smile,” James’ grandfather says as the car takes them back, and for some inexplicable reason James feels guilty, like he’s betraying someone.

Or maybe himself.

*

The doctor shows up the day after James chooses Prince. His grandfather doesn’t say what kind of doctor he is, but it soon becomes obvious when they’re alone in the sitting room and the man – balding though he’s not much older than forty, dressed in a good quality suit that doesn’t fit him the way it should – tells James to take a seat and asks if there’s anything weighing on James’ mind, anything he’d like to talk about. When James declines, the man flips through the small notebook on his lap, uncrosses his legs, crosses them again the other way, and clears his throat.

“Your grandfather mentioned you were in the care of someone called Moran. Can you tell me about him?”

James’ blood feels like it turns to ice suddenly. He refuses to say a word for the next two days, even when his grandfather glowers at him, even when he stands there, looming over James, his fist clenched so hard on his cane that it’s trembling, even when he threatens not to give him Prince after all, even when he all but shouts that James can’t keep all of it inside him, he’ll have to let it out and tell someone or it’ll eat him alive from the inside out.

“I did tell someone,” James says then, his voice tight and angry. “I told Sherlock.”

His grandfather backhands him over the mouth. His heavy signet ring catches James’ bottom lip and he tastes blood.

“I told you not to say his name!” his grandfather practically growls.

James lowers his eyes, pinches his lips tightly together and says nothing.

The doctor was supposed to return after three days. He doesn’t.

*

During one of his moments of relative freedom, James sneaks out to the barn – though he’s sure at least one of the guards watches him go, either through a sniper’s scope or a video feed. He sits in there on a bale of dusty hay, and tries to imagine the barn all cleaned up, the walls fixed and painted as they’ll be before Prince is scheduled to take residence. He tries to imagine what it’ll be like to go out on a ride around the property whenever he feels like it – whenever the walls seem to close up on him and leave him a little breathless. It’ll be good, he tells himself. It’ll be better. 

It _has_ to get better.

It’s not that things are bad, really, but James can’t see himself living like this until he’s an adult. He really can’t. Something will break long before that. Probably him.

He could use his plan B, but what if Sherlock doesn’t come? What if he’s mad that James lied to him?

James would rather believe that Sherlock still loves him than risk being sure he doesn’t.

“Aren’t you cold out here all by yourself?”

He all but jumps to his feet at the unexpected question, startled, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. He’s quick to find the person who spoke: Cathy, the cook’s daughter. She’s peeking out through the half-open door, and comes in when James sits down again and doesn’t reply. She’s carrying a steaming mug, careful not to spill what it contains.

“Saw you sneak out,” she says. “And I thought maybe you’d like something to warm you up.”

She comes to him and holds the mug out. Hot chocolate, he realizes. It smells heavenly.

He mutters a quiet thank you and accepts the mug, holding it for a moment between his hands to warm them up.

“How old are you, then?” she asks, sitting next to him with a leg folded underneath her.

She’s so close, he can feel the warmth radiating from her. He’s not sure whether to pull away or lean in a little closer.

“Thir—thirteen,” he mumbles, grimacing at how silly he sounds and repeating himself, a little more clearly. “Thirteen. How about you?”

He looks at her as he asks, a little unsettled by how close she is. He’s not used to girls sitting that close to him. He takes a sip of chocolate to give himself a countenance, and winces when he burns his tongue.

“Careful, silly,” she says with a little smile. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Her lips gleam a little; they’re very pink. She has freckles all over her nose, and bright green eyes. She wraps her hands over his and brings the mug up so she can blow on it gently, looking straight at James the entire time.

“There,” she says softly after a moment, squeezing his hands before she lets go. “Try it now. And I’ll be sixteen come April.”

He takes another cautious sip, and this time it’s just hot, not burning. Also, this time, he can taste something behind the chocolate. Frowning a bit, he drinks some more, feeling the drink warm him up all over.

“Can you taste it?” Cathy asks on a conspiratorial tone.

James nods. “What is it?”

She grins at him, puts a finger across her shiny lips.

“Just a bit of whiskey. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

James smiles back and drinks the rest of the chocolate. The next time he lowers the mug, the same finger that touched her mouth comes to brush against his bottom lip, where the cut is only half-healed. He turns very still under that unexpected touch.

“Does it hurt?” she whispers.

James swallows hard. His voice is embarrassingly high pitched when he says, “Only a little.”

Very, very slowly, Cathy leans forward.

“Let me kiss it better, then,” she says, and when her lips press again the corner of James’ mouth, it doesn’t hurt at all.

Her cheeks are just as pink as her lips when she pulls back. She jumps to her feet, takes the empty mug from him, and goes away with a smile, leaving James to wonder what the hell just happened.

*

The next day, at the same time, he’s in the barn again. He’s not exactly hoping Cathy will turn up again, but when she does, his stomach does a little flip that’s not at all unpleasant.

She has two mugs, this time, and the taste of whiskey is a little stronger than yesterday. James takes slow sips, wondering if she’ll leave again when he’s done – wondering if she’ll kiss him again before that. 

She asks about the horse, and tells him her father will fix up the barn when spring comes. She says she’s always wanted to learn to ride, and he tells her he’ll teach her if she wants. She says he has beautiful eyes, and he feels himself blushing terribly.

“You’re cute when you blush,” she whispers as she’s closing the distance between them. 

Her mouth settles against his full on and presses gently. Her eyes are half closed; James’ are wide open.

She pulls back after only a couple of seconds and smiles at him.

“You’ve never kissed anyone, have you?” she asks softly.

James tries not to feel like a liar when he shakes his head. It didn’t count, did it? He doesn’t want it all to count.

“Do you want me to show you how?”

Briefly, he thinks of Molly, and how much older than him she is. He thinks of Laure, too, the girl in the French class, whom he only saw twice but who was so nice to him, whom he looked forward to seeing every day. He’s not going to see either of them ever again, is he?

When he nods, Cathy takes the mug from his clenched hands and sets it and her own on the ground. Then she brushes her fingers through his hair and to the back of his head, cupping it lightly and drawing him forward. 

“Close your eyes and relax,” she breathes against his lips.

Her mouth presses against his again, a little more insistently than before. Her lips are warm and soft. The very tip of her tongue runs against his lower lip, gently, caressing, not forcing itself inside his mouth or demanding anything – not until James parts his lips.

She tastes like chocolate, and whiskey, and just a little bit like strawberry – it’s her lip gloss, he realizes much, much later, when he’s in bed that night and remembering those few moments from the way her hand felt in his hair to the way she smiled at him, after the kiss, and every second in between. It’s very late when he finally falls asleep.

*

The next day, the Gaelic lesson seems to last forever – or maybe it’s because James is so distracted that he keeps getting it wrong. His grandfather, strangely enough, doesn’t get mad. If anything, he seems amused. He finally waves James off.

He only waits in the barn for a couple of minutes before Cathy joins him. The mugs lay forgotten on the floor as he shows her he’s learned his lesson well. It’s nice – it’s much better than nice – and it gets even nicer when she takes his hand where it’s clenched on his own knee and leads it under her coat to rest on her breast. 

Surprised, he breaks the kiss and opens his eyes, though he doesn’t lift his hand from where she left it.

“It’s fine,” she whispers. “Everything’s fine. Doesn’t it feel good?”

It does. It really does. She’s warm and soft and she makes the prettiest sound when he moves his hand just a little bit. He kisses her again, his eyes drifting shut, forgetting where he is and why and everything he had to leave behind. It’s nice to forget for a little while.

It’s not quite so nice anymore when she rests a hand against his crotch.

He pushes away from her, almost falling off the bale of hay. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she says with a smile. “It’s all okay. I just wanted—”

But he doesn’t care to know what she wanted. He turns away and hurries back to the house, going straight up to his room, closing the door behind him. When he leans back against that closed door, he’s shaking, and cold, and a little nauseous.

*

The next day, when his lessons are over, James lingers in the office until his grandfather raises an eyebrow at him, and then he blurts out, “Can I go see Prince? You said I could.”

His grandfather gives him that head tilt that always makes something tighten painfully inside his chest.

“I suppose you could,” he says slowly. “But wouldn’t you rather stay home? Go out for a while, enjoy a nice cup of cocoa?”

His lips curve up on the last words, and James’ stomach lurches before he even realizes what he just understood. The words rise up to his lips on their own.

“You know,” he whispers, but shakes his head right away. “No, you don’t just know. You made her do this.”

And all this time James thought she liked him… What a fool… Again.

“I didn’t make her do anything,” his grandfather says, rising from his chair and coming around the desk, closer to James. He leans back against it. “She owed me a favor. I made a suggestion. That’s all.”

A favor? Why would a girl who’s not even sixteen owe him a favor? James isn’t sure he wants to know. As for suggestions… Philip Moriarty Senior doesn’t make suggestions. He speaks, and he is obeyed.

“Why?” James asks, confused. “Why would you do that?”

 _Why would you do that to me?_ is what he means. But he can’t quite say it.

For a long moment, his grandfather watches him. His eyes are too dark for James to read anything in them.

“You’ve had a lot of men around you,” he finally says, each word slow and deliberate. “I thought it’d be good to show you that ladies can be quite… delightful.”

James’ mind is running a mile a minute. He hears what his grandfather says – and what he doesn’t quite say, too.

“You think I’m gay,” he breathes, somewhere between angry and nauseated. “You think what Sebastian—” He shakes his head. “You think it made me gay.”

His grandfather grimaces, like James just uttered a curse.

“You’ve had… poor caretakers,” he says. “They exposed you to unnatural behaviors. Your father thought like I do. These men were depraved perverts and you deserve a lot better.”

The protest that the last thing he deserves is a girl throwing herself at him because she thinks she _has_ to dies on his lips as he realizes something else.

“You don’t know,” he says, startled. 

His grandfather frowns. “Don’t know what?”

“My father was gay.”

The last thing James expected was a laugh – and what a cold laugh it is…

“Don’t be ridiculous,” his grandfather huffs. “Your father loved women. And they loved him back.”

“Sebastian lived with us,” James says coldly. “He slept in Father’s room. I caught them kissing plenty of times.”

“You imagined—”

“Sebastian always called me Jim when he did it,” James goes on, more harshly now. “He said my father liked it, and I should like it too. I don’t know if Father loved him, but they had sex, that much I—”

He has no warning before the blow. Open palm against his cheek; his grandfather has very large hands. James staggers back and fights himself not to raise a hand to his stinging cheek.

“You will _not_ talk about your father in that manner,” his grandfather says.

James should look away, back off, let it go, but he was already mad about the thing with Cathy, and this just adds up to it. He raises his head and looks at his grandfather straight on.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he asks as calmly as he can muster. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

Hands fisted at his sides, his grandfather takes a step forward.

“Is that what Holmes taught you?” he sneers. “Can’t you see they’re abominations? Didn’t Moran prove that much to you?”

“There are bad people everywhere,” James says. “Sebastian wasn’t bad because he was gay, he was bad because he didn’t care about anyone but himself. Sherlock isn’t—”

It’s the back of his grandfather’s hand, this time, that whips his head back. The signet ring leaves a burning trail on his cheek.

“I _told_ you not to say that name. If you need a proper punishment to learn that lesson—”

James should shut up at this point, he knows he should, but he’s just so _mad_!

“You brought him up first!”

His grandfather glares at him. “You are going to shut your mouth, boy, starting right now. You are going to go to your room, and stay there until I say otherwise. And you are never going to say that name again, because if you do I will make sure Sherlock Holmes’ grave does not remain empty a day longer.”

There’s a gleam in those dark eyes that James knows quite well. He knows what it means.

It means someone is going to get hurt. Or killed.

And it’ll be because of James. Again.

Swallowing back his anger, he lowers his gaze. He doesn’t trust himself to even nod in acknowledgment, and he’s not supposed to say anything, so he just turns away and slips out of the room as quietly as he knows how. He does as he was told and goes up to his room. There, he sits on the floor, his back to the door, listening to sounds in the corridor, almost expecting heavy steps that would announce his grandfather wasn’t quite done.

Would he use his cane? With Father, it was always his hand, or his belt, depending on how bad James had messed up.

But time passes, night falls, and no one comes but Cathy. She brings him a tray of food – just soup and bread, nothing more. She doesn’t quite meet his eye as she sets the tray on the desk. Before she leaves, James blurts out, “Do you even like me?”

She shrugs a bit. “You’re cute,” she says quietly. “But I have a boyfriend.”

James wants to ask why. What he says instead is, “It would have been nice to have a friend. A real one.”

She doesn’t say another word as she goes and closes the door softly behind her.

James sits at the desk, stirs the soup with the spoon, nibbles at the bread, and thinks.

If it was just him, if the only penalty to another misstep was a trashing, he’d risk it.

But his grandfather threatened more than him, today. He threatened to kill Sherlock. And James has no doubt whatsoever that he will do it, too, if given an excuse.

And James _will_ give him an excuse, sooner or later, he won’t be able to stop himself. He thinks about Sherlock, and John, and everyone else all the time. He’s going to slip. He has no doubt about that either. So there’s only one thing to do.

Later that night, long after the mansion has settled into the silence of sleep, James tugs the e-reader free from the sheep. He holds his breath, waiting, waiting… and yes, the 3G icon lights up.

He’s already composed the message he wants to send in his head. It takes him all night, but he finds all the books he needs. All he has to do now is hope that Sherlock understands, hope that he’s not too angry, hope that he finds James soon.

The next two days are absolutely endless.


	16. Of Hot Cocoa & Hugs - TROA 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set somewhere during the few weeks that elapse in chapter 5 of TROA, that is to say after James learns how his father died and before the events that start unraveling on his birthday.
> 
> For justthefangirl on tumblr <3

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat, too?”

James looks up from the swirls in his hot chocolate cup to flash a smile to Molly.

“No, I’m fine, really. Thank you for this.”

She returns the smile and leads the way back toward her office. James walks carefully so as not to spill any chocolate while it’s too hot to sip. He’s just as carefully trying to decide how to say it. He doesn’t want their friendship to change. He doesn’t have that many friends; he doesn’t want to lose any, and certainly not her.

“I’m sure Sherlock won’t need that much longer,” she says as she pushes the door open to let him in. “He might even be done before you finish your chocolate.”

That’s quite possible. He did say he just had one test to run. And he also offered to show James what he was doing. They hadn’t been at Bart’s in a while, though, and James has been meaning to talk to Molly for a few weeks. 

And if he doesn’t have much time left, he might as well say it now.

He takes a sip of cocoa; still too hot. He puts it down on Molly’s desk, then picks the cup again when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

“I wanted to say thank you,” he starts, but stalls when he doesn’t quite know how to finish.

She sits in front of her computer and makes a small waving gesture toward him.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I needed a coffee if I’m going to get through this report.”

“No, I didn’t mean… Well yes, thank you for the chocolate, but…”

Her eyes are back on him, and that doesn’t help get the words out. He tries anyway.

“I meant, thank you for not treating me any different because you know who my father was.”

Her smile falters a bit, then becomes something very, very soft that sort of twists James’ stomach. He takes another sip of chocolate, then a longer one, but it doesn’t help.

“Of course,” she says quietly, and repeats it right away, a little louder. “Of course. Who he was doesn’t make a difference in who you are.”

She sounds completely sure of herself when she says that – just as convinced as Sherlock was when he said what amounts to the same thing – but James still doesn’t get it. He is who he is because of the way his father raised him, isn’t he? The way he dresses, the way he speaks, the way he looks at everything…

Except, other people have had a hand in making him who he is, for better or worse.

“He wasn’t a good person,” he says, talking into his cup. “Maybe I won’t be one either. I try but—”

He wasn’t looking at her, so he has no warning before she takes the cup from his hands and sets it aside. He looks at her questioningly, only to find himself engulfed in a very unexpected hug.

He holds his breath and stays very still. He sort of wants to hug her back, but his arms remain stubbornly at his sides.

“You’re a wonderful person,” she says, and he can feel his hair move with her words. “You’re kind, and smart, and I’m very glad I met you. I don’t think I ever met your father, I mean, the real him, but I do know you’re more like Sherlock than you are like him.”

James has no idea what to say. He never actually wanted to be like his father, but he feels vaguely disloyal at the thought of being like his father’s enemy. And yet, wasn’t that what he expected would happen when he first asked Sherlock to take him home?

It’s all a bit confusing, but at least one thing seems clear. When Molly pulls back, when she brushes James’ hair off his forehead with light fingertips and smiles at him, she truly sees him, not his father. And that’s more than James had dared hope for.


	17. Familiar - CFL 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from dulcimergecko - John hearing Mary playing the wedding gift flute music the first time!
> 
> Set during chapter 20 of CFL.

It’s only a full day after they come back from their honeymoon that John first hears it.

He’s in the living room, replying to a few well-wishing comments on his blog when the first notes trickle down from the first floor. He smiles to himself. It has only happened a handful of times over the years he’s known her, but he always enjoys Mary playing the flute. A couple of times, she even played compositions he’d heard before – although from a different instrument – and that made it even more special.

He listens absently as he types a couple more answers, but finally shuts down his laptop and goes up to the guest bedroom, standing with his shoulder to the doorjamb, watching silently. Listening.

Mary’s a fairly good flutist, and as she plays music pieces she’s familiar with – “So I won’t forget it all” – she always makes it look easy, her eyes half closed as though she doesn’t need the dog-eared sheet music on the stand, the melody flowing out fluidly, without ever a pause that’s not supposed to be there or a hesitation over a more complicated part.

Tonight, though, it’s different. Tonight, she’s leaning intently toward the stand as she plays, and even then it’s only a few notes at a time. Every so often, she stops, picks up the pencil tucked behind her ear, and scribbles on the sheet in front of her. The sight is so familiar that John feels a strange pang of nostalgia.

“Are you composing?” he asks her during one of these pauses.

She throws him a quick look and a smile.

“Composing? God no!” She laughs quietly. “I wouldn’t know where to start. I’m just trying to make adjustments. This wasn’t written for a flute.”

At once, John understands what kind of music she’s playing. They’re not her notes; they’re Sherlock’s.

“I hate to write on the sheet music,” Mary continues, tucking the pencil back behind her ear, “but it’s the only way I can play it as close as it’s supposed to be as I can. Do you want to hear what I have so far?”

Nodding, John comes in and sits on the bed behind her. After a few seconds of silence, Mary raises the flute to her lips and starts to play. 

The beginning is slow and rhythmic, and seems to echo John’s heartbeat. Soon, though, the tempo accelerates, and John’s heart follows right along. 

Is it because Sherlock wrote this that it sounds so familiar to John, as though he already knows what will come next before he hears it? He’s never heard this piece before, or at least he doesn’t think he has, but the feel of it, the way it seems to split into two voices talking to each other, seems familiar. Comfortable. Even strangely comforting.

And at the same time, it all feels a bit odd. He should be in an armchair, with a cup of tea or a glass of scotch at hand maybe, flames dancing in the fireplace and casting shadows across the room. It should be a bow caressing violin strings rather than Mary’s lips and fingers on her flute.

He chases the thought away. Sherlock wrote this for Mary and him, and everything is exactly as it should be.

“It was lovely,” he says when she finishes, and stands to come press a kiss to her cheek.

He glances at the sheet music, looking for a title, but the top of the page is blank except for Sherlock’s scrawled name. John wonders what he was thinking about when he composed this.


	18. Knowing - CFL 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ameerawrites asked for John’s perspective during CFL chapter 22, waking up and having to say goodbye to Mary.
> 
> This is short. Really short. I couldn't bear to make it any longer.

John knows.

As soon as he wakes up, he knows.

He remembers the accident, the shock of it, the pain. He remembers blood, and the crash of metal. He remembers drifting in and out of consciousness as sirens screamed in the distance. And he remembers Mary.

He knows she’s dead before Sherlock gives him confirmation, and the pain of it tears his soul to shreds.

He knows, but he needs more than cold knowledge. He needs to see her. He needs to touch her one last time. He needs it more than he needs comfort or words, and thankfully Sherlock seems to understand that; he leaves the room, promising to be back soon.

It’s all John can do not to call him back. He doesn’t want to be alone, can’t bear the thought of it… and at the same time, he can’t bear the thought of anyone watching him cry, let alone Sherlock.

He gives himself a minute. Then another one. Lets as many tears fall as come up. Then he shuts his eyes tight and wipes his cheeks, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He’s more or less composed when Sherlock comes back, but he has no illusions about looking anything other than wrecked.

Getting out of bed hurts, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the feeling of having lost half of himself. Both are much too familiar.

He couldn’t say if the room Sherlock takes him to is just next door or at the other end of the hospital. He only knows that they get there before he’s ready – and yet, it seems to take forever.

He’s seen dead bodies before. Some he learned on, grateful and respectful. Other he failed to save, and guilt always came with the determination to do better next time.

As he stands by his wife, however, as he uncovers her face and takes her hand, there’s only one thing going through his mind; one image. 

Three years ago, there was no sheet. 

Three years ago, there were people around him, noise, blood.

Three years ago, it hurt every bit as much as it does now.

And John knows.

He knows already that it’s only going to hurt more when the numbness abates and it all sinks in.


	19. Bad Dreams - TROA 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For stilltide
> 
> Set during chapter 6 of TROA, during which James wakes Sherlock from a bad dream.

Trying hard to get his breathing under control, James stares up at the ceiling for a long moment. There’s barely enough light coming in from outside for him to see the flaws in the plaster. He rarely shuts the curtains; he likes it better when he can immediately see where he is when he wakes up. That way, it’s easier to dispel the fears lingering in the corners of his sleepy mind that Sebastian is somewhere close.

When he has himself under control, he pushes the covers away and gets out of bed. As silent as he knows how to be, he goes down the staircase and into the kitchen. A glass of water will finish to clear his mind, and maybe the bad dream won’t come back when he returns to bed.

But as he’s about to go back to his room, a sound stops him; a whimper. It’s not hard to find its source, and without thinking James steps into the living room, watching Sherlock twist and turn on the sofa in a mockery of sleep, occasional sounds of distress or mumbled protests rising from his throat.

It seems James wasn’t the only one who battled bad dreams tonight.

Should he wake him, or leave him to wake himself up on his own? James knows what he’d prefer, but maybe Sherlock wouldn’t like him to know he has nightmares. When James asked if he does, he never actually answered.

But then, there’s the fact that this isn’t the first adult James has watched battle a bad dream. It was a few weeks before Father died when James woke up early and went up to his room. He was thrashing on the big bed, muttering in a language he rarely ever spoke – Gaelic, James thinks it was – and it scared James enough that he came closer and woke him up, speaking to him and pushing at his arm gently.

Still mostly asleep, Jim flailed and hit him across the face hard enough that James fell back, stunned, too shocked to even cry. The next minute, Jim was awake, sitting up in his bed and staring at him. And the minute after that, he’d drawn James in for one rare, tight, long hug that made being hit by accident more than worth it.

James could use a nice hug tonight, after the return of that old nightmare.

His decision made, he approaches the sofa cautiously and says Sherlock’s name even as he shakes him awake. Sherlock’s reaction isn’t unexpected and James pulls away at once, although not quite fast enough and Sherlock’s batting hand strikes his arm.

Was it a mistake to try to wake him? He still looks trapped in his dream. James says his name twice more, and finally Sherlock’s eyes open. He stares up, much like James did earlier, then rubs a hand over his face as though to chase sleep away.

“Did I hurt you?” 

“It’s nothing,” James says immediately, and truly it didn’t hurt that much. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock sits up and looks at him. 

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asks instead of answering; James is used to him not answering questions about how he feels by now.

“I came down for a glass of water. And I heard…”

He doesn’t know how he could describe what he heard – or that he even wants to try.

“I didn’t know if I ought to wake you or not,” he finishes.

Sherlock grimaces and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry I hit you. I didn’t realize it was you.”

Who did he think it was, then? Where was he, in his bad dream? And who was hurting him? James wishes he were brave enough to ask, but he knows he wouldn’t get an answer.

“You were asleep,” he says. “Are you all right now? I can stay down here if you want.”

Sherlock has helped him so often, in so many ways, that James makes the offer without thinking, hoping only to help a little in return. Also, after his own bad night, he wouldn’t mind curling up in the armchair and knowing Sherlock is close.

As soon as he says it, though, and sees Sherlock grimace again, he knows it was a mistake to offer, and knows Sherlock won’t take him up on it.

“Go back to bed,” Sherlock says, a little gruffly. “It’s late.”

James swallows hard and is about to ask if he can stay for himself, but something on Sherlock’s face silences him. Sherlock doesn’t like that he knows; he’s embarrassed. Better to leave him be. Without a word, he starts to go back upstairs. A quiet “Thank you” comes up toward him, but it sounds a little forced, so James doesn’t reply, nor will he mention this again to Sherlock. But as he goes back to bed, he can only wonder: will he still be having nightmares about Sebastian when he’s a grown up? Will he have someone to wake him up, then?


	20. Chamomile - TROA 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dulcimergecko <3
> 
> Set during chapter 23 of TROA, after it's been revealed that James stole Mycroft's sleeping aids.

Leaning back against the kitchen counter as he waits for the kettle to boil, John watches his two music geniuses in the sitting room. They’ve been having an extended lesson since they finished dinner, and James finally seems to be getting the hang of that fingers combination Sherlock has been trying to teach him. It’s still not perfect, but they’re getting there – which seems to be the general idea where James is concerned.

In the grand scheme of things, today wasn’t too much of a setback. Yes, they learned James made a mistake – stole pills from Mycroft, took them and endangered himself – but that was also the occasion for a frank talk and the acknowledgment of the elephant in the room.

It seems as hard for James as it is for Sherlock to use the word ‘nightmares’, or even to admit he has less than pleasant dreams. In this aspect, they’re really well matched – father and son.

Although really, John can’t throw stones, here.

The kettle finally clicks, pulling him out of his thoughts. He lines up three mugs and fixes chamomile tea for all of them. James might be the one that needs it the most, but Sherlock isn’t far behind, and it won’t hurt John either.

As the smell of it spreads through the kitchen, a wave of nostalgia and sadness washes over John, and he finds himself taken back to another kitchen, not even two years ago…

*

_“I woke up and you were gone.”_

_There’s something halfway between teasing and disappointment in Mary’s voice, but her eyes are all concern. With a half smile that looks like a grimace, John takes the hand she’s holding out to him and squeezes it softly._

_“Sorry about that, love. Couldn’t sleep.”_

_She arches an eyebrow at the mug in front of him, still mostly full with tea that is growing cold._

_“You’re the doctor here, so correct me if I’m wrong, but caffeine isn’t going to help you sleep.”_

_She’s not wrong. But the thing is, John doesn’t really want to go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to go back to those bad dreams that woke him up in a cold sweat._

_And Mary, always so perceptive, apparently doesn’t need him to spell it out._

_“Which one was it this time?” she murmurs, gently running her free hand through his hair. “Afghanistan or Barts?”_

_He could deny it, but what’s the point?_

_“I have dreamed of Afghanistan in a long time,” he says; that’s the best he can offer._

_She leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head._

_“You can wake me, you know. If you want to talk about it. Or just if you don’t want to be alone. Wake me. Let me help.”_

_John makes a sound that could pass as agreement. He’s already told her quite enough, and why would he rob her of her sleep?_

_“Stubborn,” she says fondly. “So very, very stubborn.”_

_She takes the cold tea mug to the sink and dumps it out then sets the kettle to boil again. While it heats up, she rummages in her cabinets, stretched out on her tiptoes until she finds a metal canister._

_“I don’t like—” John starts, but she doesn’t let him finish._

_“Neither do I. But if it works, it’ll be worth it, won’t it?”_

_She ends up drinking a cup of chamomile tea with him and they go back to bed together._

*

Chasing the bittersweet memory away with a shake of his head, John drizzles a bit of clover honey in all three mugs and takes them to the sitting room.

“I don’t like chamomile,” Sherlock protests.

John hands him the mug anyway.

“Neither do I.”


	21. Whispers - TROA somewhere between 8 and 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For pitzayana on tumblr.
> 
> Another night for James on the sofa.

Music slips into James’ mind, lulling him toward sleep with quiet notes and familiar chords. Sherlock has been playing more and more quietly for the past few minutes, and the violin now seems to be whispering rather than singing, but that’s okay. Wrapped up in his cocoon of blankets, his eyes already closed, James feels warm, and calm, and he knows all he has to do is let himself drift – and he does.

He couldn’t tell when the music stops, but it’s quiet voices that now find their way to his not-completely-conscious mind. He lets the words wash over him, not even trying to decipher their meaning.

“Should we carry him to his bed?”

“No. I’d rather not find out how he’d react to being manhandled while he’s sleeping.”

“Wake him up, then? He’d be better upstairs.”

“It’s fine, John. He looks comfortable enough.”

“All right, but what about you? I’m in your bed, he’s on the sofa, where are you going to sleep?”

A cold shadow like guilt touches James’ mind and he shifts on the sofa, tightening the blankets around him, keeping the warmth in and missing the next few words.

“—just to sleep. It’s big enough for two.”

“I told you I’d give you all the time you need. I’m not going to use James as an excuse to get in your bed.”

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t, John. No rush, remember?”

What follows isn’t words, it’s barely even sounds at all. It chases the cold away with a quiet realization: this is what love is like, what it should be like: quiet words and quieter kisses. In that shapeless world that isn’t quite sleep yet but isn’t wakefulness anymore, James is glad Sherlock has that. Just as he’s letting go of his final hold on consciousness, a word hooks into his mind and keeps him awake a little longer.

“—because of nightmares?”

“I guess so. Not that he said so out right.”

“He still doesn’t talk to you about them?”

“Why would he?”

“It can help to talk.”

“We do talk.”

“But if he still has nightmares he might need more than that.”

“It’s only been weeks, John. I think he’s doing really well, all things considered. He needs time more than he needs a therapist. And he certainly doesn’t need useless labels applied to him. Mycroft sent me some expert’s report about what to expect from a victim of abuse. That’s not how he should think of himself.”

“There are other words. Survivor, for one.”

“But it still defines him through his past, through what or whom he survived.”

“I suppose you have a point there. And anyway, if anyone can prove the uselessness of labels, it’s you.”

“How so?”

“Within a day of meeting you, I heard you call yourself a sociopath. Not a diagnosis you came to by yourself, was it?”

“High functioning sociopath. And no, I wasn’t the first to call myself that.”

“But you did prove it’s not true. You prove it every day.”

“Do I?”

“Would you play lullabies to ward your flatmates’ sleep against nightmares if you were?”

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

The whispers of lips on lips give way to the caress of bow to strings. A word of thanks is lingering on the edge of James’ mind, but he follows the music into a dream of colorful lights without ever voicing it.


	22. Redux - CFL 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's POV of rooftop confessions.
> 
> Requested by bagofthumbs and kate2kat a ridiculous amount of time ago.

For a moment, John is sure his imagination is playing tricks on him. How many times, in the past three years, has he looked up to Bart’s roof and seen a shadow there, a so familiar silhouette standing right on the edge, ready to jump?

All it takes is a blink, and he realizes that this time, it’s real. This time, it’s not a mere memory – a nightmare plaguing him during the day, too. There really is someone on the roof, sitting on the low wall, his back to John. 

With trembling hands, John pulls out his phone. It’s not just his hands that are shaking, and he has to step back, find some support so he won’t fold down to his knees. Even with a wall at his back, he still has to take deep breaths to stop the shaking, and needs to try three times before finally dialing the correct number. His eyes remain on Sherlock’s silhouette as the phone rings, and he sees him pick up a second before he hears his voice through the phone.

“John?”

John has to control his breathing before he can form words. They come out harsh and cutting.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing on that roof?”

Up on said roof, Sherlock stands and faces the street. He finds John almost right away and their eyes lock across the distance, like they did, three years ago. John’s heart pounds hard enough to hurt.

“John,” Sherlock says again, a whisper that barely makes it through the phone.

It’s all John can do not to start hyperventilating.

“Sherlock if this is your idea of a joke,” he says, choking on the words, “I swear to God—”

He’s not sure how he’d finish that sentence if Sherlock didn’t interrupt him.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Sherlock says urgently. “James. I told James about Moriarty’s death. He needed to hear it.”

He did, John thinks to himself. He’d never have told Sherlock to do it, because it’s not his place to interfere with how he raises James, but the boy needed to know. He doesn’t say as much, though, and instead asks, his voice rising with anger, “And he needed to hear it up there?”

A tiny part of him, the same part that is so damn angry, can’t help but wonder if this was another one of Sherlock’s bright ideas about how to ‘help’ John by forcing him to confront his traumas head on. He knew John would come here, didn’t he? He must have deduced it. Was he sitting there waiting for him?

“It just… felt right to do it here,” Sherlock says hesitantly, and John doesn’t know whether to believe him. 

Since when does Sherlock do things because of how they ‘feel’? Where is logic in all that? Where is logic in the fact that half of John is convinced any second now, Sherlock will step off into nothingness again and that this is it, the do over he dreamed of for so long, the chance to say the right thing and stop him this time.

“Get off that roof,” he says, swallowing back the other words that are trying to rise to his lips. “And take the bloody stairs!”

Like an echo of the past, Sherlock’s hand rises briefly toward John before falling to his side again, and it only pushes John’s mind a little more toward how he felt that day, shocked witless and paralyzed. 

“John,” Sherlock says, back to whispering, “calm down, I would never—”

That single word – never – breaks something inside John, a wall that contained most of his emotions, so rather than a trickle they all burst through. How can Sherlock say never when they both know he would? How can he lie like this, again?

“But you did!” John shouts. He tries to control himself, but he can’t, not when three years’ worth of pain and regrets and guilt are flooding him, drowning everything else. “You did, Sherlock. You jumped. And I don’t care that you were shamming. I watched my best friend throw himself off a building because I couldn’t find it in me to say the right words to talk him off the ledge. I watched him jump not even an hour after I had a row with him and called him names.”

Every time John has come here since that day, he has wondered – what could he have done differently? What could he have said? How could he have stopped Sherlock, stopped this insanity? Even knowing that Sherlock did live through this, the question has remained the same. 

“There was nothing you could have said—”

John has to stop him, as hard as it may be, because that’s his chance to know, once and for all, if, by summoning his courage and pushing away all the fears he couldn’t even acknowledge, he might have changed anything about that day.

He has to know, even if it means scaring Sherlock away and losing him. Even if it means carving his own heart out of his chest and putting it on display for the world to see.

“I could have said I loved you.”

He barely recognizes his own voice, but Christ, it feels good to finally say it. So good, in fact, that when Sherlock remains silent, he says it again, and this time it’s a little easier if no less scary.

“I could have said I loved you. If I hadn’t been so bloody scared, I could have said it. Would it have been enough?”

In John’s worst nightmares, he does say it, only to have Sherlock mock him before he jumps anyway. Sherlock isn’t laughing now. He’s barely talking at all, and that’s almost as bad as a laugh. What is he thinking as he says John’s name in a whisper and nothing more? John needs to know. He thinks – he hopes – no, he can’t even let himself hope. He just wants an answer.

“Just tell me, Sherlock. Could I have saved you? If I’d said I love you. Would you still have jumped?”

Distantly, he’s aware that he said ‘love’ rather than ‘loved’ this time. That he’s laying his heart out on the pavement even more clearly than he did back then. He refuses to let it scare him. He needs an answer. That’s all that matters right now. 

And he finally gets one.

“Yes,” Sherlock says at last. “I’d still have jumped. I’d still have faked it.”

Emotions roll through John until he doesn’t know what he feels anymore. Is this the answer he wanted? He has no idea. His feelings don’t matter enough that Sherlock would have changed his mind – is that better or worse than knowing for sure he could have stopped him but didn’t? Sherlock gives him no time to figure it out and goes on in the same quiet voice.

“I had to. To protect you. Because lying to you was better than being the cause of your death. I’d still do the same today if it meant keeping you safe. Because I… I do, too. Even if I couldn’t say it either.”

John can’t remember ever hearing Sherlock sound as vulnerable as he does right now, not unless he was shamming, and he’s definitely not shamming at the moment. He wouldn’t lie about this. John isn’t sure of many things, but of that much he is certain. And somehow, it’s enough to steady his nerves a little so that he doesn’t need the support of the wall at his back anymore. He even sounds much calmer when he points out, “Technically you still haven’t said it.”

Sherlock’s breathless laughter makes him want to smile.

“Do you want the memory of me saying those stupid words while standing on top of this roof?”

They’re not stupid, he wants to say, and he definitely wants to hear them at some point, just to know what they sound like, passing Sherlock’s lips. But Sherlock does have a point. Bart’s roof is not the place. And he doesn’t want to hear it through a phone anyway.

“No,” he says, advancing into the street. “No I really don’t. Come down.”

As John gets closer to the building, Sherlock disappears from view.

“On my way,” he says.

John’s fingers tighten over his phone as he passes the spot where, in his mind, blood will always stain the pavement.

“Don’t hang up,” he asks, and barely hears Sherlock’s reply.

His newfound calm is fast eroding, and as he steps inside Bart’s he has to stop. He presses a hand to the wall and bows his head, closing his eyes tightly. His heart is accelerating again, and his breathing follows suit. 

He never expected this. He never imagined that Sherlock, of all people, might respond to a confession such as the one he gave, and he certainly never intended to offer that confession in the first place. That he did so over the phone and in the very place where he lost Sherlock three years ago is even more improbable. And the timing of it all is less than ideal, too.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice breathes in his ear. “Are you there?”

John has to moisten his lips before he can manage an answer.

“Yeah, I… I’m trying not to have a meltdown.”

“You. A meltdown,” Sherlock says. “You went to war, John. I’d have thought it’d take more than three words to cause you to have a meltdown.”

That sounds more like the kind of things John expects from Sherlock, and it helps him calm down a little. He takes a huff of a breath and opens his eyes, pushing himself off the wall and starting up the staircase.

“It’s not the words,” he says, taking the steps slowly but steadily. “You haven’t even said the words. It’s what comes after. What came before. What happened this morning. It’s rushing into God knows what with a complete and utter lunatic when I’ve been a widower for a month.”

For the first time since he saw Sherlock on that roof, John allows his mind to form Mary’s name – allows himself to think of her. He loves her and misses her as much as ever, so how can he wrap his mind around what’s happening here?

“I don’t know what to say to that. Not the lunatic thing. The widower bit.”

Sherlock’s hesitation steadies John a little. If Sherlock had all the answers, if he dismissed what John is feeling right now, it’d make it harder to voice the words rising to John’s lips.

“She knew,” he whispers. “About… about my feelings for you, I mean. Our third date. I kissed her. And then I told her she should ditch me because I was in love with a dead bloke.”

He remembers that moment as though it had been yesterday. It’s the moment when his life changed, twice over. He can almost smell Mary’s perfume again, taste the sweet wine off her lips.

“I’d never admitted it to anyone before that,” he continues. “Not to my therapist. Not to your tombstone. Not even to myself. And I just blurted it out to her before I even knew what I was doing. Do you know what she said?”

“I really have no idea,” Sherlock says after a few seconds.

John’s eyes prickle and he blinks a few times. He keeps moving up, toward Sherlock whose voice he can hear echoing softly down the staircase.

“She said she understood. Said it was okay to love two people. Better than not to love at all.”

And when Sherlock came back, when John started spending time with him, she never questioned it, never looked at John with a doubt or question in her eyes. Had she been worried in the slightest about John’s feelings, he would have needed to pull back from Sherlock, but she never asked him to choose between her and his best friend.

“She was a good woman,” Sherlock says softly.

“She was. And I loved her so much.”

For a few seconds, silence descends on the staircase, broken only by the fall of John’s footsteps. When Sherlock’s voice rises again, it’s much closer, maybe as close as a few steps away. 

“John? You said I never said sorry but… I am, you know. I’m sorry I had to make you believe I was dead. I had to do this alone, and I never thought it’d take so long, or that you’d be so hurt.”

John looks up, and there is Sherlock, leaning against the wall, waiting, his eyes scrunched closed and a pained expression on his features.

“And I’m sorry she died,” he goes on. “If I could make it so she was still alive for you, even if it meant not having you in my life anymore—”

John shuts down his phone. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to think about what would have happened ‘if’. This is where they are, where recent and not so recent events led them. There’s nothing anyone can do to change the past, and only pain can be found by dwelling on it.

“Shut up,” he says shakily. Please shut up.”

He has reached Sherlock, and takes hold of his coat to pull him into a hug. He doesn’t let himself think, doesn’t wonder how Sherlock will react, doesn’t acknowledge that this hug will be different from the very few hugs they’ve shared so far – that everything will be different now. He just wants to stop shaking, and this seems like the best way to calm down.

“This…” He tries not to choke on the words, buries them against Sherlock’s coat. “None of this changes the fact that I just lost my wife.”

Sherlock’s arms tighten ever so slightly around him.

“Of course.”

“I’m not going to jump in your bed,” he adds, because it needs to be said.

“You already sleep in my bed,” Sherlock replies deadpan, and John can’t help but laugh.

“You know what I mean, you berk.”

Sherlock holds him tighter still. “Yes. I know. There’s no rush. No rush for anything.”

“Okay. Good.” He takes in a deep breath, and says the only thing that needs voicing right now. “If you ever get on that roof again I swear I’ll kick your sorry arse across London and all the way to your bloody grave.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay.”

They’re both quiet for a few moments, holding on as though they’ve just found each other again after years of absence. John wonders absently if that’s what Sherlock expected when he came back. Even when they pull away, they still don’t let go. John looks at Sherlock’s face, wondering if he’ll find the same shocked, happy surprise he feels – and yes, there it is.

“May I kiss you?” Sherlock says suddenly, almost stuttering over the words. “Please say I can kiss you.”

John laughs quietly again. Sherlock is so close, his lips are just millimeters away from John’s.

“You just said there was no rush.”

“I did, yes.” Contrite, Sherlock pulls back. “Sorry.”

That’s not what John meant, and he shows it as clearly as he can, by sliding a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck to bring him within reach again. 

Even after admitting his feelings to himself, John never imagined what kissing Sherlock might have been like – he never believed Sherlock would have cared for kissing, and even if he had, what was the point in torturing himself over what would never be? Now, he offers that requested kiss slowly, gently, chastely, more of a promise of things to come than an exploration of how things have changed already. They have time – and they _need_ time, or at least John does, to wrap his mind over what happened here.

When he ends that caress of mouth to mouth, he doesn’t pull away, not quite yet, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to press their foreheads together in a gesture just as intimate as that first barely-there kiss. Sherlock’s eyes have never seemed so light, and John could lose himself in them easily. He doesn’t want to, though, not quite yet; exchanged confessions, a hug and a kiss don’t solve everything. 

“I’m still mad at you for shoving that video in my face,” he says, his tone more gentle than the words warrant.

When Sherlock grimaces, his eyes darken ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I was trying to help.”

“I know you were. But you should have let me decide whether to watch it or even when.”

Had John had his way, ‘when’ would have been ‘never’.

“You were in pain,” Sherlock tries to explain. “I wanted to make it stop, not make it worse. I’ve been trying really hard.”

“I noticed,” John whispers, thinking back on all the times in recent weeks when he thought to himself that Sherlock really had changed. “I didn’t understand why, but I noticed.”

Their eyes are still locked and something passes between them, something that very well might turn into a second, maybe not so chaste kiss. The moment is broken by the sound of steps coming closer to them down the staircase. John raises his eyebrows in a question. Sherlock answers by pulling back, and they come apart. John isn’t ashamed, nor does he have anything to hide, but for now, he’s glad to keep this, whatever it is, whatever it might still become, between him and Sherlock. The rest of the world, including the woman walking past them and disappearing at the next landing, isn’t part of this.

“What now?” John asks when they’re alone again.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says; the admission sounds odd, coming from him, but also _right_. “I’ve never done this. Relationships. Is that the word?”

John smiles, remembering their first dinner at Angelo’s and Sherlock’s dismissal of sentimental attachments. 

“If that’s what you want to call it,” he says.

“What would you call it?”

John doesn’t want to name this, not quite yet, not when they have so much to figure out – or at least, he does.

“Unexpected,” he quips, and a corner of Sherlock’s mouth briefly curls up.

“So you’ll stay?” Sherlock asks, the words brimming with hope; John isn’t used to that particular tone from him, not unless he’s asking Greg if he has an interesting case for him.

“I’ve still got a lot of baggage to deal with,” John points out, hating to disappoint that hope yet needing to.

“I can help.” Sherlock says immediately. “I want to help.” With more reluctance, he adds, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

John shrugs. “I don’t know. Some of it I just have to come to grips with on my own.” After a brief pause, he points out, “Also your kind of help can be rather brutal.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says again. “I never thought—”

“I know.”

There was a time when John wasn’t sure Sherlock knew the meaning of the word ‘sorry’, but right now he’s heard it quite enough. He rests a hand on Sherlock’s arm, and is surprised at how easy, how natural the gesture feels.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to keep apologizing. I probably didn’t react in the best way either.”

“You still haven’t said if you’ll stay,” Sherlock says, almost plaintively, and how could John say no at this point? He never wanted to leave, he just thought he had to, but maybe he doesn’t.

“Yes, I’ll stay. Just… no rush, right?”

Sherlock smiles. “No rush.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Echoes of Love and Absence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740767) by [bagofthumbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagofthumbs/pseuds/bagofthumbs)




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